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WHAT  HAPPENED 
TO  ME 


BY 

LaSALLE  CORBELL  PICKETT 

(MRS.  GEN.  GEORGE  E.  PICKETT) 


AUTHOR  OF 

Pickett  and  His  Men;  Literary  Hearthstones  of  Dixie; 
Bugles  of  Gettysburg;  Heart  of  a Soldier; 
Across  My  Path;  "In  de  Miz”  Series; 

Folk  Lore  Stories,  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
BRENTANO’S 


1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  by  BRENTANO’S 


Dedicated  to 
Selma  Lewisohn 


cwx  i oy 

I ( 'J  • ( 0 

?5nw 


In  my  garden  a lily  grew,  blossoming  in 
snowy  purity,  fragrant  sweetness  and  stately 
grace.  It  held  the  summer  in  its  golden  heart 
and  the  love  of  the  angels  crowned  its  radiant 
petals.  It  bade  me  “good-morning”  and  the 
dawn  was  bright  with  promise.  It  waved  a 
caress  to  me  in  the  soft  winds  of  the  Junetide 
noon  and  the  day  was  filled  with  light  and  love. 
It  shone  in  mystic  silver  through  the  moonlight 
and  my  night  was  aglow  with  dreams. 

Thus  a Lily-Soul  blooms  in  the  garden  of 
my  life  to  make  it  glad  with  the  glory  and  fra- 
grance of  her  blossoming.  Many  hearts  are 
happy  because  of  the  flowers  of  Love  and  Hope 
and  Faith  which  she  has  planted.  Many  a life 
which  in  its  early  dawn  held  little  promise  of 
good  has  grown  into  usefulness  and  beauty  in 
the  brightness  that  the  Lily-Soul  has  given  of 
her  own  loveliness  to  light  the  dim  pathway. 

In  cloudy  days  the  whiteness  of  the  Lily-Soul 
has  shone  like  a star  through  my  darkness  and 
the  sunlight  in  her  golden  heart  has  illumined 
the  black  veil  of  sorrow. 

La  Salle  Coebell  Pickett. 

October  1,  1916. 


429347 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  “Out  of  the  Everywhere”  ...  1 

II.  The  First  Prayer 12 

III.  Church  Visitors 19 

IV.  My  Soldier 30 

V.  A Keepsake  for  the  Angels  ...  42 

VI.  African  Royalty 48 

VII.  Our  First  Currency 57 

VIII.  Yuletide 64 

IX.  Greenbrier  White  Sulphur  Springs  79 

X.  The  Breaking  of  the  Storm  ...  87 

XI.  The  “Virginia” 93 

XII.  Richmond  After  Seven  Pines  . . 103 

XIII.  My  Wounded  Soldier 109 

XIV.  The  Red  Fox 117 

XV.  The  Smuggled  Bride 124 

XVI.  Bottler,  Bottler  Up 133 

XVII.  On  the  Lines 141 

XVIII.  The  Amenities 149 

XIX.  The  Closing  Days 157 

XX.  Suspense 175 

XXI.  ‘Whoa,  Lucy” 184 

XXII.  George  Junior’s  First  Greenback  191 

XXIII.  “Skookum  Tum-Tum” 200 

XXIV.  Carpet-Bag,  Basket  and  Baby  . . 207 
XXV.  Edwards  is  Better 221 


v 


VI 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXVI.  One  Woman  Redeemed  Them  All  . 227 

XXVII.  A Familiar  Face 237 

XXVIII.  Visitors,  Shilling  a Dozen — Our 

Left-Handers 248 

XXIX.  Born  with  Emeralds — Nemo  Noce- 

tur 261 

XXX.  Turkey  Island 273 

XXXI.  At  the  White  House 288 

XXXII.  Uncle  Tom 305 

XXXIII.  “God’s  ’tisement”  314 

XXXIV.  Charlotte  Cushman 327 

XXXV.  Easter  Flowers 339 

XXXVI.  His  Last  Battle 352 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Portrait  of  Author Frontispiece 

FACING 

PAGE 


Abraham  Lincoln 168 

Ulysses  S.  Grant 288 

‘ ‘ I know  dear  Father  was  a great  man  and  knew 
most  everything,  but  I didn’t  know  he  had 
God’s  eyes  and  could  see  everything” 330 

‘ ‘ Little  Brother,  be  gentle  with  the  flowers ; they 

die  so  soon”  348 

“All  Quiet  Along  the  Potomac” 355 

The  Angel  of  Peace 


363 


I 


“out  of  the  everywhere” 

THEEE  are  some  events  with  which  we 
have  become  so  familiar  by  report  that 
we  can  scarcely  believe  they  did  not  hap- 
pen within  our  own  recollection.  Thus  it  is 
with  my  advent  into  earthly  existence. 

Not  long  before  the  time  at  which  I was  ex- 
pected to  arrive  in  this  vale  of  thorns  and 
flowers  my  father’s  only  brother  was  seriously 
ill.  It  became  necessary  for  my  father  to  ac- 
company him  to  Philadelphia  to  consult  an  emi- 
nent surgeon. 

For  months  it  had  been  definitely  settled  that 
I was  to  be  a boy,  for  all  was  grist  that  came  to 
my  father’s  mill.  No  shadow  of  a doubt  of  my 
manhood  clouded  the  family  mind.  My  health 
had  been  drunk  at  the  clubs  and  in  the  homes, 
and  especially  at  the  neighborhood  functions, 
the  fox  hunts,  and  the  name  of  Thomas  La  Salle 
had  already  been  given  me.  “L’homme  pro- 
pose et  Dieu  surprend,”  and  so  did  I,  for,  most 


l 


2 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


unexpectedly,  I made  my  arrival  in  tlie  middle 
of  the  night,  the  middle  of  the  week,  the  middle 
of  the  month,  almost  the  middle  of  the  year, 
near  the  middle  of  the  century,  and  in  the 
middle  of  a hail-storm.  Confident  that  I was  a 
boy,  the  family  had  all  hoped  that  I would  be 
considerate  enough  to  postpone  my  coming  at 
least  until  my  father’s  return,  but  with  perverse 
discourtesy  and  want  of  filial  regard,  I would 
not  wait.  Of  course,  there  was  no  one  ready 
to  receive  me. 

I have  borne  the  blame  for  this  untimely 
debut,  but  it  was  really  the  fault  of  the  barn 
which,  in  the  early  part  of  the  evening,  had 
caught  fire  and  been  burned  to  the  ground.  The 
excitement  had  passed  and  the  sleep  of  exhaus- 
tion that  follows  disrupting  events  had  settled 
over  all  when  again  there  was  confusion;  this 
time  owing  to  my  inconsiderate  haste  to  present 
myself.  The  keys  to  the  stable  door  could  not 
be  found.  There  was  no  time  to  hunt  for  them, 
so  the  hinges  were  pried  off  and  Fannie  Kemble, 
the  fleetest  and  safest  horse  in  the  stable,  was 
hurriedly  called  from  her  dreams.  My  young 
uncle,  afterwards  a gallant  Confederate  officer, 
Colonel  J.  J.  Phillips,  was  routed  out  and,  bare- 
foot and  mounted  upon  the  horse  without  saddle 
or  bridle,  rode  post  haste  for  our  family  phy- 
sician, treasuring  the  grievance  to  reproach  me 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


3 


with  in  after  years  when  I would  give  evidence 
of  a too  impetuous  disposition.  In  my  eager- 
ness to  fly  to  the  ills  I knew  not  of,  I would  not 
await  the  arrival  of  the  medical  man  and, 
spurning  his  assistance,  defying  them  all,  made 
my  “ingress  into  life,  naked  and  bare.” 

“Why  didn’t  you  wait  for  me,  you  impertinent 
little  rascal?”  inquired  the  Doctor.  “What’s 
your  hurry?  You  are  too  enterprising  for  so 
young  a lad.” 

“Lordy,  Lordy,  Marse  Doctor,”  interposed 
my  mammy  tragically,  “he  ain’t  no  boy-chile. 
It’s  a po’  li’l  gal-chile.” 

“A  girl  ? Why ! Damn  him !”  exclaimed  the 
Doctor  in  astonishment  and  dismay.  Thus  my 
first  greeting  upon  arriving  on  the  earth  was 
one  of  profanely  expressed  disapproval. 

A wail  of  woe  indescribable  went  up  from  all 
around.  My  poor,  disappointed,  heart-broken 
mother  turned  her  face  to  the  wall. 

“Come  ’long  to  yo’  mammy,  honey.  She  ain’t 
gwine  to  ’sert  you  ef  you  is  a gal-chile,  po’  l’il 
lamb!  You  can’t  he’p  yo’  calamity  no  mo’  dan 
we-all  kin.  Mammy  knows  hit’s  terrible.  En 
yo’  pa,  he  gwine  cuss  eb’y  last  nigger  on  de 
plantation  ’bout  hit.  I wonder  what  dey  gwine 
name  you,  for  Tommy  ain’t  no  gal’s  name.  Dey 
can’t  call  you  atter  none  er  yo’  gran’pas  now, 
nuther.  I suttinly  is  sorry,  but  dar  ain’t  nuttin’ 


4 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


so  bad  dat  bit  couldn’t  be  wusser,  en  you  mout- 
er  been  twins — gal  twins ! Po’  li’l  thing ! Den 
I know  you’d  byer  ole  Bringer  bark.”  (Ole 
Bringer  was  the  “ha’nt  dog.”)  “Lordy ! Lordy ! 
I wonder  who  gwine  tell  yo’  pa.  I reckon  de 
Doctor  better  bre’k  hit  to  him,  kase  de  preacher 
is  gone  souf  to  cure  his  th’oat.  Dar,  dar,  honey, 
mammy’s  most  th’oo.  She  gwine  drap  some 
warm  catnip  tea  down  yo’  th’oat  now.  Dar,  dar, 
go  sleepityby!” 

Thus  early  in  my  career  my  mammy  com- 
forted me,  as  the  old  mammies  always  com- 
forted us  “white  chilluns.” 

Several  days  later  my  father  returned  and 
hurried  to  my  mother.  After  blessing  and  kiss- 
ing her  he  said  proudly : 

“Now,  little  mother,  papa  wants  to  see  his 
little  man.  Where  is  he?” 

In  those  days  the  nearest  telegraph  station 
was  a long  distance  from  our  plantation  home 
and  there  had  been  no  opportunity  of  inform- 
ing my  father  of  the  misfortune  that  had  be- 
fallen the  family. 

A burst  of  tears  answered  him. 

“My  God!  My  wife!  My  boy  is  not — not 
dead !” 

“Oh,  my  darling,  it’s  worse  than  that !” 

“Worse!  He  is  not  deformed!” 

“I  can’t  tell  you!  I — I couldn’t  help  it.” 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


5 


“Where  is  he?” 

“In  there,”  pointing-  to  the  room  that  had 
been  arranged  for  a nursery. 

Mammy  Charity,  who  had  been  eaves-drop- 
ping,  was  almost  knocked  over  as  my  father 
suddenly  opened  the  door  upon  her  and  excit- 
edly cried : 

“Let  me  see  my  boy,  mammy !” 

“Marse  Dae,  please,  suh,  fergib  us  all,  but — 
de  boy  is  a gal.” 

I opened  my  eyes  which,  alas!  were  crossed, 
to  give  and  receive  a blessing. 

“A  cross-eyed  girl!”  he  exclaimed.  “How 
did  it  happen?” 

“I  dunno,  Marse  Dae,  how  de  po’  boy  hap- 
pened to  be  a gal.  I ’clare  it  wuz  none  of  we- 
all’s  doin’s,  but  I reckon  de  reason  she’s  cross- 
eyed is  her  bein’  born  lak  she  was  in  de  middle 
of  de  week  a lookin’  bofe  ways  for  Sunday.” 

Thus  was  I blessed  by  physician,  mother  and 
father.  In  a few  weeks  the  eyes  uncrossed  of 
themselves,  but  they  are  still  looking  both  ways 
for  Sunday — which  never  comes. 

Three  weeks  later,  when  my  grandmother 
made  her  second  visit  to  me,  her  first  grand- 
child, finding  that  I had  developed  into  a very 
colic-y,  and  consequently,  fretful  child,  a dis- 
turber of  sleep  and  peace,  she  offered  to  take 
me  back  home  with  her,  a proposition  which 


6 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


was  eagerly  accepted.  The  “settin’-aig-basket” 
was  sent  for  and  I was  comfortably  and  cosily 
placed  in  it  and  put  into  the  foot  of  her  rock- 
away.  Pery,  the  driver,  was  cautioned  to  be 
“keerful  of  de  ruts  en  de  jolts;  not  to  go  to 
sleep  nor  to  step  ’pon  dat  chile,  en  don’t  you 
drap  her  out ; ef  you  do  she’ll  ha’nt  you  as  long 
as  yon  lib.” 

It  was  a beautiful  day  in  June.  The  air  was 
laden  with  perfume  and  song.  Not  that  I knew 
it  at  the  time — cuddled  up  in  my  “settin’-aig- 
basket” — but  I have  credible  information  on  the 
subject,  furnished  later,  with  all  the  rest  of  the 
details  of  that  most  important,  though  uncon- 
scious, period  of  my  earthly  career.  Every 
little  while  my  grandmother  would  peep  into 
the  basket  to  see  that  all  was  well.  Everybody 
we  met  stopped  to  ask  after  the  “new-born 
baby”  and,  being  informed  of  its  presence  in 
the  “settin’-aig-basket,”  requested  to  make  its 
acquaintance  sans  ceremonie,  Pery  taking  ad- 
vantage of  the  introduction  to  hop  out  of  the 
rockaway  and  gather  great  green  honeysuckles 
and  honeysuckle  blossoms,  which  he  put  into 
the  basket  until  it  looked  as  if  filled  with  honey- 
suckles and  their  blooms,  that  being  the  best 
tribute  he  could  offer  to  the  little  new  “missis.” 

At  Sandy  Bottom,  the  dismal  grave  of  many 
a trusting  heart,  where  the  frog  croaks  his 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


7 


never-ceasing  croon,  Uncle  Frenigike  came  out 
from  “Free-nigger-town”  to  borrow  “a  chew  of 
terbacker”  and  beg  a “ninepence  to  buy  de  ole 
man  a plug.”  Recognizing  the  “settin’-aig- 
basket”  he  said : 

“Lordy,  Mistis,  can’t  you  give  de  ole  man  a 
settin’  of  dem  aigs.  We-all’s  ole  domernicker  is 
jest  gwine  to  settin’.” 

Being  informed  of  the  contents  of  the  basket, 
he  asked  to  be  allowed  to  see  “de  li’l  gal  baby.” 

“Lord,  Lord!  Jes’  look  at  dem  li’l  fis’es,” 
he  exclaimed.  “Dey’s  bofe  shet  up  jest  as  tight 
ez  wax.  Dat  chile  sho’  gwine  to  be  one  stingy 
white  woman  when  she  grows  up  ef  you-all  don’t 
scrouge  dem  dar  li’l  fis’es  open  en  put  sumpn 
’twixt  ’em.” 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  worked  his 
own  black  forefinger  within  my  little  soft  baby 
clasp,  then  suddenly  but  gently  withdrawing  it 
asked: 

“Ain’t  she  got  nare  rabbit  foot,  Mistis?  She 
ain’t!  De-Lord-sakes-alive ! Po’  li’l  misfortu- 
nate  thing — agwine  on  fo’  weeks  ole  en  ain’t 
never  had  a rabbit’s  foot!  Well,  she  shan’t  be 
widout  one  no  longer.  No,  dat  she  shan’t.  She 
shall  have  a rabbit’s  foot  dis  ve’y  minute. 
Yas’m,  I got  a fresh  one  in  my  snake-skin  bag 
I kilt  wid  my  two-time  (double-barrel)  gun 
last  Chuesday  jest  ’fo’  sundown  en  jest  ez  hit 


8 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


wuz  gwine  lipperty-clip,  lipperty-clip,  ’cross  de 
briahs  over  Liza-Malindy’s  grave.  Liza-Ma- 
lindy,  you  know,  was  my  fifth  wife.  I wish  hit 
had  been  runnin’  ’cross  one  er  de  men-folkses’ 
graves  en  dat  I had  kilt  hit  of  a Friday  night 
’stead  of  a Chuesday.  Den  co’se,  dar’d  a been 
a heap  mo’  luck  in  hit.  But  hit’s  de  best  I kin 
do  now  for  de  po’  li’l  thing  en  hit’s  a heap  better 
dan  havin’  no  rabbit’s  foots  at  all.” 

Running  his  hand  down  into  his  breeches 
pocket  he  pulled  out  his  rattlesnake-skin  bag, 
filled  with  charms  against  “hoodoos  en  cun- 
jers,”  and  selected  from  the  gruesomeness  a 
blood-stained  rabbit’s  foot  and,  lifting  my  little 
clenched  fingers  one  by  one,  he  closed  them 
around  it.  Thus,  perhaps,  he  saved  me  from 
that  most  loathsome  fault,  “stinginess,”  and 
insured  for  me,  even  though  the  talisman 
was  of  a “Chuesday’s”  killing,  sprinting  over 
a woman’s  instead  of  a man’s  briar-grown 
home,  at  least  a minimum  amount  of  good 
luck. 

But  for  the  superstitious  and  fascinating 
tales,  silken-woven  by  the  tongue  of  fancy,  and 
the  awesome  shadows  cast  by  authenticated 
tragedies,  Sandy  Bottom,  where  I met  my  sable 
godfather,  Frenigike,  and  received  my  first  se- 
curity against  ill  luck,  would  have  been  nothing 
but  an  insignificant  little  valley  in  the  wild- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


9 


wood,  crossed  by  a quiet  looking  stream.  In  its 
dread  death-bed,  by  the  side  of  priests  and  In- 
dians, fair-haired  maidens  and  dark-eyed  sav- 
ages, sleep  the  wife  and  children  and  servants 
of  an  English  nobleman.  The  infant  child,  be- 
cause of  its  appealing  helplessness,  alone  was 
saved,  while  the  great  strong  horses  and  the 
coach  with  its  freight  of  human  lives,  gold  and 
silver  and  jewels,  were  swallowed  by  the  treach- 
erous quicksand. 

This  tragedy  occurred  in  the  year  1799,  when 
Sir  Henry  Clinton  formed  the  plan  of  humbling 
the  pride  and  destroying  the  resources  of  Vir- 
ginia. He  sent  a powerful  fleet  to  Hampton 
Eoads  and  landed  a force  under  General 
Mathews  to  advance  and  perfect  this  project. 
General  Mathews  took  possession  of  Norfolk 
and  Portsmouth  and  the  surrounding  country, 
burning  Suffolk  and  committing  depredations 
everywhere.  The  family  of  an  English  noble- 
man, frightened  by  the  devastation,  fled  for 
safety  to  a point  on  the  Nansemond  where  a 
part  of  the  English  fleet  was  lying  in  waiting. 
Passing  Sandy  Bottom  the  driver  stopped  to 
water  his  horses.  He  was  urging  them  farther 
up  stream  where  the  water  was  deeper  and 
clearer,  when  a runaway  negro  named  Isaac 
sprang  from  the  bank,  shrieking  out  a warning 
of  the  terrible  quicksand.  His  warning  being 


10 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


disregarded,  he  snatched  the  sleeping  baby  from 
the  nurse’s  arms,  saying : 

“Dis  po’  li’l  chile  can’t  he’p  itse’f  en  I gwine 
to  sabe  it  anyhow  fum  bein’  gulched  down  dat 
quicksandy  debil’s  th’oat,  ef  de  yuthers  won’t 
be  sabed.” 

Before  the  last  echo  had  followed  the  negro’s 
words — before  the  frightened  child  could  catch 
breath  for  another  shriek — carriage,  horses, 
driver,  footmen,  maids,  children  and  mistress 
were  all  sucked  in  by  the  dark  water.  A few 
bubbles  here  and  there  were  the  only  sign  of  its 
treachery.  The  horrified  riders  had  followed  so 
close  that  the  dash  of  their  horses’  feet  splashed 
the  water  simultaneously  on  the  screaming  child 
and  over  the  swirling  waves  which  marked  the 
fatal  spot  of  its  mother’s  doom. 

As  a reward  for  his  warning  and  for  saving 
the  life  of  the  -child,  Isaac,  the  negro,  was  given 
his  liberty  and  a home — the  first  of  his  race  ever 
set  free  in  Virginia — and  was  thereafter  im- 
pressively distinguished  by  the  (to  those  of  his 
own  color)  opprobrious  epithet  of  “Free-Negro- 
Isaac.”  This  name  was  soon  jargoned  into 
Frenigike,  and  afterward,  through  culture  and 
prosperity,  into  Freeling,  the  present  family 
name  of  the  descendants  of  Frenigike.  The  old 
place  near  Sandy  Bottom  is  still  called  Free- 
Nigger-Town. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


11 


Past  this  spot  of  gruesome  history  I was 
borne  in  the  unconsciousness  of  infancy  through 
the  little  village  of  Chuckatuck  and  beyond  un- 
til the  carriage  drew  up  at  my  grandmother’s 
door  and  Uncle  Charles,  her  foreman,  came  out 
with  the  little  negroes  running  after  him  to  wel- 
come us. 


II 


THE  FIRST  PRAYER 

STILL  cuddled  among  the  honeysuckles  in 
the  basket  I was  carefully  lifted  from  the 
carriage. 

“Please,  Marm,  Mistis,  lemme  carry  de  set- 
tin’-aig-basket  in  to  Mammy  Dilsey,”  pleaded 
Pery,  the  driver,  who  had  taken  great  pride  in 
giving  me  my  first  ride  and  covering  me 
over  with  his  cherished  honeysuckle  blossoms. 

“Mammy’s  gwine  to  be  so  s’prised  she’ll  want 
to  knock  me  d’own.  En  I’s  gwine  to  look  solemn 
en  mousterious  en  hand  her  de  basket  en  say, 
‘’Tain’t  no  use  er  yo’  settin’  dese  yer  aigs, 
Mammy  Dilsey,  for  dey’s  already  done  en 
hatched  out !’  I know  now  jes’  what  she’s  gwine 
answer  back.  She  gwine  say,  ‘Don’t  you  come 
liyer  wid  none  o’  yo’  projickin’,  you  pizen-fry- 
in’-size-limb-er-Satan,  you.  Ef  you  does  I’ll 
smack  you  slab-sided  into  de  middle  of  next 
winter!’  Den  I gwine  say,  ‘Well,  look  for  yo’- 
se’f,  Mammy  Dilsey.’  ” 


12 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


13 


My  grandmother,  who  not  only  liked  to  humor 
her  servants  but  enjoyed  the  anticipated  sur- 
prise he  was  going  to  give  Mammy  Dilsey, 
granted  Pery’s  request  and  I was  carried  in 
and  put  upon  Mammy’s  bed  and  the  rehearsed 
conversation  followed.  Mammy  Dilsey  would 
have  been  more  vigorous  in  her  denunciation 
of  that  “fryin’-size”  with  his  “lyin’  en  pro- 
jickin’  ” if  her  eyes  had  not  at  that  moment 
rested  on  my  grandmother,  to  whom  she  ap- 
pealed to  “help  her  to  save  dat  lyin’-limb-of-a- 
nigger  fum  perditionment.” 

“Look  for  yourself,  Mammy  Dilsey,  before 
condemning  Pery  to  perdition,”  suggested  my 
grandmother. 

Mammy  looked  and  seeing  only  my  leafy  and 
blossoming  cover,  ejaculated  scornfully: 

“Aigs?  Dey’s  honeysuckles  en  flowers. 
Dat  nigga’s  tryin’  to  fool  me !” 

In  lifting  my  honeysuckle  blanket  she  pulled 
out  my  sugar  rag.  This  loss  combined  with 
the  cessation  of  the  soothing  motion  of  the  rock- 
away  caused  me  to  make  my  presence  and  my 
grievances  known  by  wail  after  wail,  verifying 
Pery’s  truthfulness  as  to  something  having 
hatched  out. 

“Land  sakes !”  cried  Mammy  Dilsey.  “Fo’ 
God! — Fo’  God!  Well,  you-all  sho’  ought  to  be 
ridic’lous  at  yo’se’fs — a humblementin’  a po’ 


14  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


li’l  he’pless  baby  en  insecatin’  her  lak  dis ! Did 
you-all  have  no  pillows  nor  no  laps  to  fotch  de 
po’  li’l  lamb  home  ’pon  widout  puttin’  her  in  a 
settin’-aig-basket?  How  you-all  know  dat  some 
misforchunement  ain’t  gwine  to  come  ’count  er 
projickin’  wid  her  lak  dat?  De  chile  mout 
crow,  or  she  mout  cackle,  or  she  mout  take 
her  arms  for  wings  en  flop  ’em,  or  she  mout 
peck,  or  eat  wu’ms,  or  walk  wid  her  toes  stuck 
in’ards.  She  eben  mout  have  fedders.  De 
Lord’s  ways  is  mousterious.  He  don’t  do  nut- 
tin’  out  of  de  reg’lar  Hisse’f,  en  you-all  is 
done  sumpn  not  only  out  of  de  reg’lar  but 
onnatural,  a puttin’  a baby  in  a settin’-aig- 
basket.  De  po’  li’l  thing  cries,  too,  lak  ’twas 
starved  to  deaf.  I s’pose  Miss  Lizzie  didn’t 
have  no  milk  en  maybe  dat  was  de  reason  you 
fotch  it  long  back  wid  you  so  dat  Sis  Sereny 
could  nuss  her;  her  twinzes  bein’  most  de  same 
age.” 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  Aunt 
Serena,  who  had  already  been  notified  of  her 
coming  duties,  appeared,  carrying  on  each  arm 
a baby  as  black  as  the  ace  of  spades.  Without  a 
word  she  laid  both  the  babies  down  on  Mammy 
Dilsey’s  bed  and,  taking  me  in  her  loving, 
motherly  arms,  set  my  table,  and  I,  half  starved, 
ravenously  showed  my  appreciation  and  en- 
joyed my  first  meal  at  the  expense  of  my  little 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


15 


foster  sisters,  who  had  just  been  awakened  by 
my  screams. 

The  news  of  my  strange  arrival  had  spread 
and  the  whole  plantation  assembled  to  see  their 
‘ ‘young  missis,  ’ ’ crowding  around  in  reverential 
admiration,  while  I went  off  into  a peaceful 
sleep,  smiling  anon  in  that  sleep,  as  the  warm- 
hearted loyal  negroes,  from  the  oldest  to  the 
youngest,  leaned  over  to  look  at  and  bless  me, 
“old  missus’es”  first  grandchild. 

“Lord!  Lord!  Is  dat  we-all’s  li’l  missis?” 
asked  Uncle  Charles,  taking  off  his  hat,  pulling 
his  forelock  and  scraping  his  foot  as  reveren- 
tially to  me  as  if  I had  been  a little  princess.  “Is 
dat  Miss  Lizzie’s  chile?  Niggers,  you-all  hyer 
dat?  Take  off  your  hats  en  bow  en  cutchy, 
ebby  last  one  er  you,  for  dis  is  yo’  Miss  Lizzie’s 
chile  en  mistisses’  gran’chile,  de  young  missis 
dat  de  Lord  is  done  en  sont  down  to  earth  for 
us  to  take  a intrus’  in,  to  work  for,  en  to  teach 
manners  to,  en  to  send  to  school.  Come  along 
now,  let  us  all  kneel  down  en  ’semble  ourse’fs 
in  praher  en  concentrate  our  li’l  missis  to  de 
bressed  Lord;  all  ’cept’n’  Sis  Sereny;  she’s 
holdin’  de  li’l  missis,  so  she  kin  set. 

“Oh,  Lord,  de  Father  of  de  fatherless,  dat 
letteth  not  a sparrow  fall  to  de  groun’  widout 
Dy  knowledge  en  counts  de  very  hairs  upon 
dar  heads;  disremember  dis  Dy  he’pless  chile, 


16 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


who  has  been  fotch  to  us  dis  day  th’oo 
trials  en  triberlations  in  a settin’-aig-basket.  I 
beseech  De,  oh  Lord,  to  watch  over  her,  clothe 
her  in  raiment  en  vestures  en  feed  her  on  manna 
en  lead  her  li’l  foots  into  de  straight  en  narrer 
paths  to  de  glory  of  Dy  righteousness.  Harken 
up  her  voice  to  sing  Dy  praises  en  lift  up  her 
ban’s  to  do  Dy  wu’k  en  keep  her  in  Dy  holy 
keepin’.  Oh,  Lord,  bress  dis  our  li’l  baby  for 
de  sake  of  Dy  own  en  Miss  Mary’s  li’l  baby, 
li’l  Marse  Jesus,  amen.” 

“Git  up  fum  off  yo’  knees  now,  niggers,  en 
go  ’long  en  tend  to  yo’  business.  You-all  got 
dem  dar  cows  to  git  up  en  milk,  en  de  hogs  is 
to  be  fed,  en  de  hawsses  to  be  curried,  en  you, 
Sis  Sereny,  you  better  wrop  de  baby  up  now 
en  carry  her  along  to  de  Gre’t  House,  en  Sis 
Dilsey,  you  better  look  after  things.  Ole- 
Granny- Aggie,  you  better  git  to  bed.  ” 

The  cradle  was  brought  down  from  the  gar- 
ret and  emptied  of  its  loyal  little  toys.  It  had 
belonged  to  the  twin-brother  of  the  uncle  who 
took  the  midnight  ride  to  help  me  across  the 
dark  waters.  "While  it  was  being  arranged  for 
my  occupancy  a cry  of  dismay  went  up  from 
Ole-Granny- Aggie,  who  had  disobeyed  Uncle 
Charles  and  followed  me  in. 

“Don’t  put  dat  chile  in  dat  cradle!  What 
you  thin  kin  ’ ’bout?  Marse  Jasper’s  twin  done 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


17 


en  die  in  dat  cradle,  en  all  de  rabbits’  foots  in 
de  worl’  ain’t  gwine  charm  away  de  ha’nts  en 
keep  off  de  ebil  eye  ef  you  puts  her  in  dat  cradle 
to  sleep.  Put  dem  dar  li’l  toys  all  back  ag’in 
en  tek  de  cradle  back  to  de  garret  en  pull  outn 
de  trunnel  bed.  De  cat’s  been  a tryin’  to  steal 
hit  for  hern,  en  cats  does  p’int  de  way.  You 
sho’  is  tryin’  to  see  how  much  triberlation  en 
bad  luck  you  kin  fotch  down  ’pon  dis  chile’s 
haid,  fotchin’  her  home  of  a Friday  in  de  small 
of  de  moon  in  a settin’-aig-basket,  mekin’  her 
drink  her  first  drink  fum  a stranger’s  cup  in  a 
stranger’s  house  wid  undrinkin’  strangers  a 
lookin’  on  while  she  unbeknown  to  it  all  is  a 
drinkin’.  I’s  glad  I flung  de  dish-water  on  de 
dog — a howlin’  jest  as  Uncle  Charles  was  a 
prayin’,  en  you-all  know  what  a howlin’  dog 
means.” 

The  superstitions  were  heeded,  the  little  toys 
were  all  lovingly  replaced  in  the  cradle  and  re- 
turned to  the  garret  and  I was  put  to  sleep  in 
the  little  trundle  bed  where  my  grandfather 
and  great-grandfather  and  mother  and  uncles 
and  aunts  had  slept  when  the  cradle  and  crib 
had  grown  too  small  and  they  were  not  yet  old 
enough  for  a tester-bed. 

Aunt  Serena  was  moved  from  the  “quarters” 
and  ensconced  in  one  of  the  garret  rooms  of  the 
“Gre’t  House.”  She  was  provided  with  a sup- 


18  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


ply  of  new  clothing,  which  delighted  her,  and 
was  placed  upon  a special  diet,  which  she  re- 
sented, preferring  her  bacon  and  greens,  ‘ ‘pot- 
liquor”  and  “corn-meal-dumplin’s”  to  the  dain- 
tier food  prescribed. 

Her  little  twins,  my  foster  sisters,  Mary- 
Frances  and  Arabella,  were  placed  in  the  care 
of  the  “orphan  tenders,”  Mammy  Dilsey  and 
Ole-Granny-Aggie,  the  latter  claiming  to  be 
more  than  a hundred  years  old.  A cow  was  set 
aside  for  the  especial  use  of  the  twins,  who 
soon  learned  that  the  tinkle  of  the  cow-bells 
meant  for  them  a banquet  of  rich  warm  milk. 

For  awhile  they  were  brought  up  twice  a day 
to  the  “Gre’t  House”  to  see  “dar  Mammy”  and 
sometimes  were  permitted  to  partake  of  the 
crumbs  that  fell  from  the  “rich  baby’s  table,” 
which  crumbs  they  soon . disdainfully  refused, 
showing  their  preference  for  the  libations  of 
“Spotty  Sookey,”  that  being  the  name  of  their 
barnyard  cow. 


Ill 

CHURCH  VISITORS 

MY  grandmother’s  old  colonial  home, 
Holiday’s  Point,  so-called  because  of 
the  many  holidays  that  my  grandfather 
had  been  accustomed  to  give  his  servants,  was 
on  the  Nansemond  River,  in  Nansemond  County. 

The  county  came  into  existence  in  1639,  being 
first  called  Upper  Norfolk.  Its  name  was  soon 
changed  to  Nansemum,  spelled  by  Captain  John 
Smith  “Nansemond.”  The  Dismal  Swamp  ex- 
tends along  its  edge.  Its  county-seat  is  Suf- 
folk, the  burning  of  which  I,  as  a child,  have 
often  heard  described  by  Ole-Granny-Aggie, 
an  eye-witness,  while  we  would  listen  with  bated 
breath,  hair  on  end  and  nerves  aquiver. 

“No,  chillun,”  she  would  say,  “jedgment  day 
ain’t  agwine  to  be  no  mo’  tur’ble  to  ’sperience 
dan  de  burnin’  of  we-all’s  county-town  by  dem 
furrin  Britishers  was,  en  de  niggers  en  de  white 
folks  ain’t  agwine  to  be  no  skeerder  den,  nee- 
der.” 


19 


20  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


Then  she  would  describe  in  her  picturesque 
lingo  the  firing  of  the  barrels  of  tar,  pitch  and 
turpentine  which  had  been  brought  from  the 
Dismal  Swamp  and  placed  upon  the  wharf 
awaiting  shipping.  The  flames  carried  by  a 
strong  wind  caught  the  grass  of  the  dry  marshes 
and  spread  to  the  town  and  the  surrounding 
country  and,  as  Granny- Aggie  said,  “de  ma’shes 
en  de  river  for  miles  looked  and  soun’  lak  one 
gre’t  blazin’-kindle-liglited  sheet  er  steadified 
thunder  and  lightnin’ — de  magazines  a ’splod- 
in’ — de  timbers  a cracklin’ — de  barrels  of  tar, 
pitch  en  turkentine  a bustin’  en  splungin’  out 
dar  fire — de  sparks  a flyin’  en  a lippin’  lak  de 
whole  fundament  had  busted  wide  open  en  all 
de  stars  in  de  Heabens  was  a drappin’  out,  en 
ev’ybody  runnin’  lipperty-clip  lak  dey  thunk  de 
Debit  was  a movin’  de  Bad  P.lace  down  to  Nanse- 
mon’.” 

Thus  my  infancy  was  surrounded  by  historic 
tales  and  the  more  ancient  traditions  that  had 
descended  from  father  to  son  through  genera- 
tions of  dusky  retainers. 

I was  the  idol  of  my  dear  grandmother  and 
her  household  and  many  friends.  My  play- 
mates were  the  children  of  the  surround- 
ing plantations — the  old  homes  inherited  from 
colonial  days.  I had  never  known  any  other 
way  of  living  and  experienced  a shock  of  sur- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


21 


prise  on  learning  that  a little  new  acquaintance 
did  not  reside  in  the  home  of  her  ancestors.  I 
asked  my  grandmother  if  that  little  girl  was 
respectable. 

“Of  course,”  she  replied.  “She  is  a very 
nice  little  girl.  What  makes  you  ask?” 

“Because  her  pa  and  ma  rent  their  home. 
She  told  me  so  herself.  She  can’t  be  respect- 
able.” 

My  grandmother  explained  to  me  that  though 
it  was  pleasant  and  desirable  to  live  in  the  house 
of  our  fathers,  the  absence  of  that  comfort  did 
not  necessarily  place  a person  “beyond  the  pale.” 
But  I felt  at  that  time  that  it  was  grandmother’s 
charity  that  caused  her  to  set  forth  that  view, 
for  I thought  that  people  who  did  not  live  in 
their  own  houses  could  not  be  respectable. 

Two  members  of  my  grandmother’s  house- 
hold were  “nominated”  as  “church  visitors,” 
Mrs.  Mary  Hutchins,  who  was  deaf,  and  whose 
husband,  a sea  captain,  had  been  lost  in  a wreck, 
and  Miss  Sophia  Wilson  who,  through  a vicious 
parrot,  had  lost  her  sight  on  the  eve  of  her 
marriage  and  had,  in  consequence,  been  de- 
serted by  her  fiance. 

There  were  poorhouses  in  those  days  but 
no  homes  for  aged  women  and  the  members  of 
the  church  took  care  of  their  homeless  co- 
workers. As  Mrs.  Hutchins  and  Miss  Sophia 


22 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


belonged  to  the  old  Glebe  Church,  they  were 
invited  as  honored  guests  by  fellow-members. 
Some  years  earlier  the  Episcopal  Church  had 
become  almost  extinct  in  Virginia  and  the  mem- 
bership was  still  very  small,  so  that  the  visits 
were  correspondingly  extended.  As  my  grand- 
mother’s home  was  especially  pleasant  the 
guests  prolonged  their  stay  indefinitely,  sud- 
denly falling  too  ill  to  be  moved  if  there  was 
any  suggestion  of  their  going  elsewhere. 

Mrs.  Hutchins,  or  “Miss  Mary,”  as  we  called 
her,  could  not  hear,  but  she  read  the  movements 
of  the  lips,  a circumstance  of  which  Miss  Sophia 
would  perversely  take  advantage  by  turning 
away  as  she  spoke,  whereupon  her  friend  would 
thus  reproach  her: 

“Turn  your  head  this  way,  Sophia  Wilson! 
You  don’t  want  me  to  hear  what  you  are  talking 
about.  Begrudging  me  a little  news  and  I in- 
terested in  everything,  and  the  Lord  knows  I 
haven’t  a bit  of  curiosity.” 

“How  do  you  know  what  the  Lord  knows, 
Mary  Hutchins'?  If  you  knew  half  what  He 
knows  you  wouldn’t  make  so  many  mistakes. 
No  curiosity,  indeed!  You’re  chock  full  of  it. 
You’d  bore  a gimlet  hole  through  the  earth  to 
see  what  was  on  the  other  side.” 

“You  wouldn’t  know  what  was  on  the  other 
side  if  there  was  a tunnel  through  and  somebody 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


23 


shouting  it  with  a fog-horn,  and  you’re  so  stingy 
you  wouldn’t  tell  me  if  you  did  know.  Not  that 
it  makes  any  difference;  you’re  not  likely  to 
known  anything  on  any  side  of  the  earth.” 

“Humph,”  was  the  indignant  retort,  “if  I 
don’t  know  things  why  should  you  be  so  anxious 
to  see  me  talk  so  you  could  find  them  out.” 

“Miss  Mary”  was  saved  from  the  embarrass- 
ment of  a reply  by  the  timely  arrival  of  my 
grandmother,  who  could  always  apply  oil  to 
the  waters  when  they  were  especially  troubled. 

A part  of  my  youthful  education  consisted  of 
the  thrilling  stories  related  to  me  by  the  cap- 
tain’s faithful  relict,  whose  memory  cherished 
the  tales  of  “moving  ’scapes  by  land  and  sea” 
told  her  in  early  days  by  the  sailor.  Thus  I 
met  the  man-eaters  of  the  South  Seas,  shud- 
dered at  the  gruesome  trophies  that  adorned  the 
persons  and  huts  of  the  head-hunters  of  Borneo, 
beheld  the  sea-serpent  in  the  rippling  waves  of 
the  river  that  flowed  below  the  edge  of  my 
grandmother’s  lawn,  and  heard  many  a story 
of  storm  and  wreck  in  which  the  departed  sea- 
captain  had  performed  wonders  of  skill  and 
bravery. 

“Well,  Mary  Hutchins!”  exclaimed  Miss 
Sophia  in  stern  disapproval  when  I would  be 
lost  in  rapt  attention  to  these  thrilling  tales. 
“What  do  you  mean  by  putting  such  notions 


24 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


into  that  innocent  child’s  head?  What  do  you 
suppose  she  will  come  to  when  she  grows  up? 
A lunatic  asylum?  Come  out  of  one  yourself 
most  likely  or  you  wouldn’t  get  such  crazy  ideas. 
Just  fancy  people  wearing  other  people’s  heads 
and  hanging  them  on  the  wall  when  they  can 
pick  up  beautiful  shell  necklaces  right  off  their 
own  beach  and  can  get  wax  flowers  to  put 
around  their  houses  that  look  natural  and  won’t 
ever  fade ! And  as  for  sea-serpents,  you  know 
there  never  were  any.” 

“Now,  Sophia  Wilson,”  Mrs.  Hutchins  would 
answer,  “the  Bible  tells  us  that  there  are  more 
things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  philosophy  ever 
dreamt  of,  and  we  know  it’s  true,  and  if  philoso- 
phy can’t  even  dream  of  the  things  in  heaven 
and  earth,  how  in  the  name  of  common  sense 
are  you  going  to  know  what’s  in  the  waters 
under  the  earth?  And  doesn’t  it  stand  to  rea- 
son that  those  who  go  down  into  the  great  deep 
know  more  about  what’s  in  the  sea-waves  than 
you  do  who  would  be  afraid  of  the  wave  of  a 
clothes-line  on  a wash-day?” 

In  romantic  moments  Mrs.  Hutchins  would 
tell  me  of  the  green-haired,  flame-eyed,  melodi- 
ous-voiced mermaids  that  lie  in  wait  to  lure 
unwary  seamen  to  destruction  on  the  rocks, 
from  which  danger  her  sailor  had  been  delivered 
by  the  memory  of  her.  Unfortunately,  Miss 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


25 


Sophia  chanced  to  be  present  at  one  of  these 
sentimental  reminiscences. 

“You  never  did  have  green  hair,  Mary 
Hutchins,  not  even  at  your  prettiest,  and  that 
wouldn’t  be  much,  and  as  for  flaming  eyes,  you 
couldn’t  scorch  a potato,  not  if  your  dinner  de- 
pended on  it,  and  if  you  ever  did  sing  it  must 
have  been  worse  than  a flock  of  jaybirds.  Talk 
about  that  old  Greek  who  moved  trees  when 
he  played ! I should  think  your  singing  would 
be  enough  to  make  all  the  woodpiles  in  Virginia 
run  away.  The  more  you  educate  that  child, 
Mary  Hutchins,  the  less  she  knows.  The  Lord 
gave  her  more  learning  to  begin  with  than 
she’ll  ever  get  from  you,  and  if  you  go  on  tell- 
ing her  such  trash  she’ll  forget  all  she  ever  did 
know.  I heard  you  yesterday  telling  her  about 
the  ghosts  of  the  children  of  Israel  that  keep 
on  crossing  the  Red  Sea.  Now  I want  you  to 
know,  Mary  Hutchins,  that  when  those  Jews 
crossed  the  Red  Sea  once  they  were  on  the  other 
side  for  good  and  they  don’t  go  on  walking 
through  that  water  as  if  the  Lord  had  nothing 
to  do  but  take  care  of  them  every  time  they 
chose  to  go  wading.  There  is  such  a thing  as 
trusting  the  Lord  once  too  often,  and  the  folks 
that  know  Him  as  well  as  the  children  of  Israel 
did  aren’t  going  to  take  risks  like  that  on  Him. 
First  thing  you  know  you’ll  have  that  child  see- 


26 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


mg  ghosts,  and  yon  know  well  enough  that  peo- 
ple who  see  ghosts  aren’t  ever  likely  to  see  any- 
thing that’s  worth  looking  at.” 

I was  often  troubled  in  my  mind  between  a 
confidence  in  “Miss  Mary,”  which  I wished  to 
preserve  unshaken,  and  the  force  of  Miss 
Sophia’s  arguments. 

The  germ  of  pathos  latent  in  my  undeveloped 
mind  was  fostered  by  the  story  of  Miss  Sophia’s 
lost  vision,  which  ran  thus : 

She  was  visiting  at  the  home  of  a friend  who 
owned  a parrot  of  unusual  brightness  of  mind 
and  independence  ^f  character.  Its  mistress 
had  a little  wooden  whistle  ( like  ttiose  you  may 
recall  having  seen  rural  schoolboys  whittle  out 
and  use  for  the  production  of  music  rsomewhat 
shrill  in  tone  but  well  adapted  to  please  the 
taste  of  the  juvenile  artist.  The  lady  would 
whistle  to  the  bird,  which  would  answer  her  in 
tones  that  obviously  fell  short  of  its  ambition. 
The  mistress  ♦had  a whistle  like  her  own  made 
for  the  parrot  who,  marvelous  to  relate,  ac- 
quired a high  degree  of  skill  in  its  use  and  was 
proud  of  the  achievement. 

Once  when  Miss  Sophia’s  fiance  called  she 
wished  to  entertain  him  with  a display  of  the 
bird’s  accomplishments.  Putting  her  friend’s 
whistle  to  her  lips  she  approached  the  cage. 
The  parrot,  apparently  angry  with  the  usurper 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


27 


for  daring  to  assume  the  character  of  its  mis- 
tress, darted  its  beak  through  the  wires  and 
plucked  out  one  of  the  interloper’s  eyes.  From 
overwork  or  sympathy  the  other  eye  lost  its 
sight.  The  lover’s  affection  failed  before  the 
test  of  a blind  sweetheart  and  he  found  a more 
fortunate  lady. 

This  story  was  told  me  as  a lesson  in  refrain- 
ing from  meddling  with  the  possessions  of  other 
people.  In  combination  with  “Meddlesome 
Matty”  in  my  school  reader  it  led  me  to  extreme 
care  in  avoiding  too  great  familiarity  with 
things  that  did  not  belong  to  me. 

I was  fascinated  not  only  by  the  tragic  story 
but  by  the  click-clack  of  Miss  Sophia’s  teeth 
falling  out  of  place  as  she  told  it  to  me.  She 
had  purchased  them  by  the  sacrifice  of  her  col- 
lection of  gold  dollars,  the  gifts  of  friends 
through  many  years.  The  extravagance  and 
vanity  of  this  purchase  furnished  another  sub- 
ject of  dispute  with  “Miss  Mary,”  who  was  a 
thrifty  soul  and  pious  as  well. 

“Sophia  Wilson,”  she  said,  “if  the  Lord  had 
intended  you  to  have  teeth  all  your  life  wouldn’t 
He  have  given  you  a set  that  would  have  lasted 
to  your  dying  day?” 

Miss  Sophia  retorted  with  spirit: 

“If  He  wanted  me  to  go  without  teeth  be- 
cause the  ones  He  made  turned  out  badly,  why 


28  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


do  you  suppose  He  put  people  into  the  world 
that  were  smart  enough  to  make  new  ones? 
Just  answer  me  that!” 

The  question  being  wholly  unanswerable,  the 
conversation  lapsed. 

I found  relief  from  the  depression  produced 
by  the  tragic  reminiscences  confided  to  me  by 
goingout  into  the  sunlight  on  the  grass-carpeted 
lawn  and  walking  under  the  pink  and  white 
canopy  of  the  blossoming  altliea  bushes,  or  Eose 
of  Sharon,  as  the  flowering  plant  was  sometimes 
called.  The  negroes  had  named  the  althea  the 
“toothbrush  tree”  because  they  broke  twigs 
from  it  and  chewed  the  ends  of  the  tough  fiber 
into  brushes  softer  than  the  finest  hair  brush 
and  used  them  for  cleaning  their  teeth.  “Miss 
Rose  Sharon  she  first  started  it,”  they  said. 
“She  was  a fairy  and  lived  in  the  tree  and  the 
pink  and  white  blossoms  are  the  smile  of  her 
pretty  face.  ’ ’ I thought  the  fairy  magic  in  the 
“tooth-brush  tree”  was  what  kept  the  teeth  of 
the  negroes  so  dazzlingly  white,  and  we  children 
always  made  our  toothbrushes  of  the  same  ma- 
terial, hoping  to  achieve  a like  result. 

On  the  plantation  were  some  “Story  Trees,” 
or  “Ghost  Trees,”  as  the  negroes  called  them. 
On  their  trunks  were  patches  of  white  and  gray 
moss,  like  fragments  of  thin  veils.  Each  of  the 
splotches  bore  a warning  or  a legend  brought 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


29 


by  the  spirits  and  written  there.  The  trees 
were  centuries  old  and  held  the  ancient  Bible 
stories  recorded  before  the  alphabet  was  in- 
vented, when  the  art  of  reading  was  among  the 
undiscovered  things,  and  not  even  the  earliest 
picture-writing  had  been  evolved.  It  was  only 
the  most  important  messages  that  the  Lord 
would  permit  to  be  confided  to  the  old  trees. 
Some  of  the  spirit  records  had  broken  lines 
and  the  servants  said  that  the  angel’s  wing  was 
broken  as  he  brought  the  message  down.  There 
was  a deep  and  fearsome  scar  on  one  of  the 
“ghost  trees”  which  indicated  a tragedy,  past 
or  to  come,  and  I used  to  gaze  upon  it  with  awe- 
some wonder,  trying  to  read  its  dread  meaning. 

A few  years  later  a great  tragedy  came  and 
the  blackness  of  it  shrouded  our  whole  nation, 
but  whether  that  was  what  the  old  tree  prophecy 
meant  I know  not. 


IV 


MY  SOLDIER 

EVERYONE  has  a point  of  beginning — -a 
period  back  of  which  life,  to  present  con- 
sciousness, was  not.  For  me  this  point 
stands  out  vividly  in  memory. 

I was  staying  with  my  grandmother,  for  since 
she  took  me  home  in  the  “settin’-aig-basket,” 
she  had  lovingly  asserted  her  claim.  My  time 
was  divided  between  the  two  homes,  hers  and 
my  father’s.  My  tall  handsome  father  and  my 
beautiful  little  mother  sat  on  the  front  veranda, 
my  brother  Thomas  playing  near  them  on  the 
grass.  It  was  in  cherry  time  and  I saw  “Uncle 
Charles”  coming  up  the  slope  carrying  a forked 
stick  on  which  hung  a great  cluster  of  black- 
heart  cherries  edged  with  bright  red  ones  that 
he  had  gathered  for  them  to  take  home. 

Suddenly  my  attention  was  diverted  from 
the  cherries  to  a horse  pounding  down  the  lane 
and  stopping  at  the  gate,  where  a barefoot  boy 
tumbled  off.  He  had  ridden  bareback,  with 


30 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


31 


plow-hames  for  a bridle,  as  if  the  horse  had 
been  hastily  taken  from  the  field. 

“Come  quick  as  you  can,  please,  ma’am!” 
cried  the  boy.  “Mrs.  Pitt  is  dying !” 

The  rockaway  was  drawn  to  the  door  by  old 
Starlight,  my  grandmother  took  her  seat  with- 
in, and  I watched  Pery  driving  off,  following 
them  with  my  eyes  to  the  end  of  the  lane,  where 
they  were  lost  to  view  in  the  highway. 

Poor  Mrs.  Pitt  left  four  children  to  be  ap- 
portioned among  the  members  of  her  church, 
little  Sara  falling  to  my  grandmother’s  care. 
The  nest  morning  my  old  mammy  broke  this 
news  to  me,  ending  with: 

“Well,  I sposin’  it’s  all  right,  but  de  li’l  gal 
don’t  b’long  to  de  quality,  en  how  de  Pitts  come 
to  membership  in  de  silk-stockin’  Chu’ch  is  be- 
yonst  me.” 

My  mammy’s  idea  of  the  Episcopal  Church 
dated  from  the  days  when  its  members  were 
noted  for  ornamentation  in  dress,  and  to  her  it 
was  always  “de  silk-stockin’  Chu’ch.”  The  lack 
of  silken  qualifications  did  not  lessen  her  de- 
termination to  do  her  duty  by  the  little  girl 
who,  in  her  opinion,  was  so  frail  that  she  was 
doomed  to  an  early  death.  In  her  desire  to 
fulfill  her  obligations  mammy  exhorted  me  to 
“ack  lak  a sister-in-law  to  her,  as  you  can’t  ack 
lak  a sho’  ’nough  bloodified  sister.”  She  ex- 


32 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


pressed  her  opinion  that  it  was  not  for  nothing 
that  she  had  been  dreaming  about  snakes  and 
about  wasps  building  their  nests  in  the  bee- 
hives and  made  gloomy  predictions  of  “haunts” 
and  spirits  that  would  prowl  around  and  creep 
through  the  keyholes  because  of  this  unfortu- 
nate child.  Warned  by  my  wondering  eyes 
that  she  was  trespassing  on  forbidden  ground, 
she  stopped  short,  saying: 

“Gl’long,  honey,  and  play  wid  yo’  new  French 
chany  set.  I done  talk  to  myself  ’twel  I got 
a rnis’ry  in  my  haid.” 

The  privilege  of  playing  with  my  dear  little 
set  of  imported  china  was  granted  only  when 
I had  been  particularly  good  or  some  one  else 
particularly  indiscreet. 

That  evening  little  “Sary  Lizbef”  came.  She 
was  a shy,  frail,  bow-legged  child,  with  sandy 
hair,  pale  blue  eyes,  and  warts  on  her  fingers. 
I took  possession  of  her,  wanting  to  give  her 
everything  I had,  happy  in  my  self-abnegation, 
having  a tender  feeling  for  her  because  of  her 
lack  of  the  vigor  possessed  by  the  other  children 
I knew  and  because  there  gloomed  over  me 
mammy’s  assertion,  “She’s  ’bleeged  to  die,  any- 
how.” 

One  morning  Aunt  Serena  came  in  to  make 
known  to  my  grandmother  her  suspicions  that 
the  little  girl  had  whooping  cough,  adding  the 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


33 


warning:  “So  you  liyer  me,  ole  Missus,  you 
better  stop  she  and  li’l  Missus  mingulatin’  wid 
one  anudder.”  The  diagnosis  proving  correct, 
my  grandmother  stopped  our  “mingulatin’  ” by 
taking  me  to  Old  Point  Comfort  to  visit  her 
friend,  Mrs.  Boykin,  a sister  of  Mr.  John  Y. 
Mason.  At  first  I was  troubled  about  my  only 
girl  playmate;  white  girl,  I mean,  for  Mary 
Frances  and  Arabella,  my  little  colored  foster 
sisters,  had  been  my  maids  and  playmates 
all  my  life  and  I was  strongly  attached  to  them, 
like  a princess  dispensing  laws  and  giving  them 
their  parts  to  play  in  the  drama  of  child-life. 
Only  a Southern  child  can  understand  these  re- 
lations and  the  sentiments  born  of  them. 

The  charms  of  Old  Point  soon  dispelled  my 
grief  and  I was  happy,  being  a favorite  not 
only  with  the  children  but  with  the  older  guests, 
who  found  me  useful  in  amusing  the  little  ones, 
to  whom  I taught  the  fancy  steps  I had  learned 
from  my  dancing-master  and  the  original  songs 
and  dances  of  the  negroes  on  the  plantation. 
Alas ! in  due  course  of  time  I developed  whoop- 
ing cough  and  was  thrust  into  the  gulf  of  social 
ostracism.  Instead  of  the  accustomed  hearty 
welcome,  I was  greeted  with,  “Run  away,  little 
girl,  my  little  children  cannot  play  with  you 
now.”  I was  a sensitive  child,  and  this  sudden 
change  was  like  a January  freeze  in  midsum- 


34 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


mer,  but  I soon  discovered  that  my  mammy’s 
advice,  “Ef  you  kyan’t  be  happy  den  be  happy 
as  you  kin  be,”  strictly  followed,  insured  con- 
tentment in  the  long  run.  She  pointed  out  the 
advantage  of  being  sociable  with  myself,  in  that 
I should  have  no  interference  from  others,  but 
warned  me  to  be  careful  not  to  play  too  long 
at  one  game  or  I would  surely  have  “one  of 
dem  tur’ble  low-sperited  spells  yo’  gramma  calls 
‘on  yo’  ear,’  ” the  latter  phrase  being  mammy’s 
version  of  “ennui.” 

Before  I had  reached  this  danger-point  fate 
brought  me  a companion  who  more  than  filled 
the  vacancy  left  by  the  defection  of  my  former 
playmates.  I had  seen  a solitary  officer  on  the 
sands,  reading,  or  looking  at  the  ships  as  they 
came  and  went,  or  watching  the  waves  as  they 
dashed  to  sudden  death  against  the  shore.  He 
figured  in  my  imagination  as  the  “Good  Prince” 
in  the  fairy  stories  my  grandmother  told  me. 

He  did  not  look  as  tall  as  the  men  of  my  fam- 
ily, but  he  carried  himself  so  erectly  and  walked 
with  such  soldierly  dignity  that  I was  sure  that 
any  “Good  Prince”  might  have  envied  him  his 
stately  appearance.  I noted  that  his  hair,  which 
hung  in  shining  waves  almost  to  his  shoulders, 
was  the  same  color  as  my  own  and  I pulled  one 
of  my  curls  around  to  look  at  it  and  make  sure 
of  the  accuracy  of  the  comparison.  Even  at  that 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


35 


early  age  I had  a liking  for  dainty  hands  and 
feet  and  I noticed  his  small  feet  as  he  paced  the 
sands  and  the  delicate  hand  that  was  raised 
to  his  cap  in  salute  to  an  officer  who  passed. 
The  grace  of  his  hands  was  well  set  off  by  the 
cambric  ruffles  that  edged  his  sleeves.  My 
childish  eyes  took  in  the  neatness  and  perfect 
fit  of  his  attire  which  set  off  his  distinguished 
form.  I thought  him  quite  the  handsomest  sol- 
dier I had  ever  seen,  and  was  surprised  one  day 
to  hear  somebody  say  that  he  had  fought  in  the 
Mexican  war.  It  seemed  impossible  to  me. 
How  could  anyone  so  immaculate  and  so  beauti- 
ful to  look  upon  have  really  fought  and  killed 
people?  I had  never  been  near  enough  to  see 
his  eyes,  but  imagined  that  they  must  be  bril- 
liant stars  like  those  to  which  I said  good-night 
just  before  I cuddled  down  to  invite  sweet 
dreams. 

My  attention  would  probably  not  have  been 
drawn  so  particularly  to  my  soldier,  for  I had 
already  begun  to  call  him  my  soldier,  had  he 
been  surrounded  by  dancing,  chattering  com- 
panions and  formed  a part  of  the  gay  life  of 
Old  Point  Comfort.  I should  have  observed 
him  only  as  a brilliant  feature  of  the  cruel  world 
that  had  chosen  to  condemn  me  to  exile.  But 
in  his  solitude  I felt  that  we  were  comrades  in 
sad  experience.  I knew  of  only  one  calamity 


36 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


that  could  so  set  apart  a human  being  from  his 
fellow  creatures  as  to  bar  him  from  association 
with  his  kind.  The  symptoms  were  unmistak- 
able and  I at  once  recognized  the  melancholy 
officer  as  a co-victim  of  whooping  cough  and 
gave  him  the  tender  pity  of  one  who  knew  all 
about  his  misfortune. 

One  morning  I was  skipping  along,  chatter- 
ing as  usual,  inquiring  about  the  little  girl 
whose  spiteful  tongue  had  been  pulled  out  by 
a springbok,  asking  if  the  bluejay  really  did 
carry  tales  to  the  devil,  and  other  queries  per- 
tinent to  my  stage  of  development,  when  my 
grandmother  stopped  to  speak  to  a friend.  I 
rambled  on  until  I came  to  a spreading  umbrella 
under  which  my  soldier  lay  on  the  sands  read- 
ing. He  was  so  absorbed  in  his  book  that  he 
did  not  see  me  till  I crawled  under  the  umbrella 
and  looked  into  his  face  with,  I suppose,  all  the 
sympathy  that  I felt  and  asked  him  anxiously 
if  he  had  the  whooping  cough,  telling  him  of 
my  mammy’s  infallible  remedy  for  that  malady 
and  assuring  him  of  her  willingness  to  apply  it 
to  his  case.  Then  he  looked  at  me,  courteously 
raising  his  cap  and  smiling,  and  I saw  that  his 
eyes  were  gray,  shot  with  changeful  lights, 
twinkling  blue  with  mirthfulness  as  he  gave  me 
a polite  good  morning.  This  recalled  me  to  a 
realization  of  the  demands  of  good  society  and 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


37 


I got  up  and  curtsied,  wishing  him  “Good  morn- 
ing” and  inquiring  concerning  his  health.  He 
arose  and  with  knightly  grace  returned  my 
greeting,  pointing  to  a seat  for  me  on  the  sand, 
and  resumed  his  own  place.  Betuming  to  the 
query  with  which  I had  opened  the  interview 
he  asked  why  I had  taken  him  for  a victim  of 
so  juvenile  an  ailment.  I feelingly  related  my 
own  experience  and  dwelt  upon  the  oppressive 
isolation  of  one  so  afflicted  and  said  that  as  he 
did  not  associate  with  other  officers  nor  dance 
with  young  ladies  and  had  to  swim  and  read 
all  by  himself,  as  I did,  I thought  it  must  be 
because  he  was  suffering  from  the  same  misfor- 
tune as  that  which  had  deprived  me  of  social 
pleasures. 

He  looked  at  me  with  a shade  of  sadness  in 
his  face  and  then  I saw  that  his  eyes  could  be 
very  dark,  like  the  sky  sometimes  at  night  when 
the  moon  had  gone  to  bed  and  the  stars  were 
only  little  shimmery  specks  of  light  in  the  dark- 
ness piled  velvety  soft.  He  told  me  that  he  did 
not  have  the  whooping  cough  but  he  had  some- 
thing worse,  a broken  heart,  and  he  did  not 
like  to  make  others  sad  with  his  sorrow. 

I had  never  seen  a broken  heart,  but  had  some 
acquaintance  with  articles  that  had  come  to 
grief  in  the  kitchen  and  had  been  restored  to 
pristine  wholeness  by  clever  manipulation.  I 


38 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


comforted  him  with  the  assurance  that  broken 
hearts  did  not  signify  anything  of  importance ; 
my  mammy  could  mend  them  with  glue  and 
boil  them  in  milk  so  you  couldn’t  even  see  the 
cracks  in  them,  as  she  had  done  with  my  grand- 
mother’s sugar  bowl.  “How  did  you  break  your 
heart?”  I inquired  sympathetically.  He  replied 
that  God  broke  it  when  He  took  from  him  his 
loved  ones  and  left  him  so  lonely.  In  return 
for  his  confidence  I promised  to  comfort  him  for 
his  losses  and  to  be  his  little  girl  now  and  his 
wife  just  as  soon  as  I was  grown  up  to  be  a 
lady. 

He  took  a ring  from  his  guard-chain  and  put 
it  on  my  finger  and  gave  me  a tiny  gold  heart 
inscribed  with  “Sally,”  which  had  been  the  name 
of  one  of  his  loved  ones,  and  I crept  out  from 
under  the  umbrella  pledged  to  Lieutenant 
George  E.  Pickett  of  the  United  States  Army. 
Then  and  to  the  end  he  was  my  soldier,  and 
always  when  we  were  alone  I called  him  “Sol- 
dier.” I still  have  the  ring  and  heart,  and  am 
indebted  for  this  reminiscence  to  the  little  red 
memorandum  book  which  he  gave  me  years 
after,  when  he  was  General  George  E.  Pickett, 
of  the  Confederate  Army. 

“Come  again,  little  fairy,”  he  said  as  I was 
leaving  him  to  the  uninterrupted  perusal  of  his 
book.  Just  then  my  grandmother  came  up,  with 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


39 


apologies  for  my  intrusion  upon  a stranger,  and 
the  explanation  that  my  nurse  had  been  sent 
to  the  Fort  with  a note  for  Lieutenant  Pickett, 
the  son  of  one  of  her  old  friends,  asking  the 
pleasure  of  his  company  to  dinner.  My  new- 
found friend  introduced  himself  as  the  officer 
in  question,  expressing  his  pleasure  in  the  meet- 
ing and  assuring  her  that  my  visit  had  been  a 
charming  episode  in  a monotonous  waste  of 
loneliness.  I explained: 

“I  am  his  little  girl  now  already  and  am  go- 
ing to  he  his  wufe  as  soon  as  I am  grown  up  to 
be  a lady.” 

“Yes,  it  has  all  been  arranged,”  he  laughed. 

From  that  time  loneliness  was  at  an  end  for 
me.  My  soldier  had  no  fear  of  contagion,  as- 
suring me  when  I asked  him  if  he  was  too  big 
to  have  whooping  cough  that  it  was  a privilege 
of  youth  and  diminutiveness.  We  built  pine 
bark  yachts  and  sailboats  and  steamers  and 
sailed  them  on  the  lakes  we  made  by  damming 
up  the  waves  that  dashed  highest  on  the 
shore.  The  waves  of  our  lakes  washed  the 
coasts  of  every  country  on  the  map  and  our 
stately  ships  brought  back  to  us  rich  cargoes 
from  all  the  countries  of  the  world.  We  built 
forts  and  garrisoned  them  with  men  as  brave  as 
those  who  fell  with  Leonidas  in  the  great  battle 
of  which  my  soldier  told  me  as  we  worked. 


40  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 

Upon  the  sea-wall  he  placed  a flag  that  fluttered 
defiance  to  the  enemy-ocean  as  the  waves  dashed 
up  to  our  embattled  ramparts  and  rolled  back 
defeated.  It  was  my  first  introduction  to  the 
Star-Spangled  Banner  and  the  red  and  white 
stripes  and  star-gemmed  sky  impressed  me  as 
very  beautiful.  In  those  days  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  were  rarely  seen  in  the  Southern  States 
and  the  flag  of  Virginia  was  the  only  emblem 
of  sovereignty  that  I had  known.  My  soldier 
told  me  the  story  of  the  battle-born  flag  and  the 
eagle  that  perched  upon  it  amid  the  smoke  of 
the  conflict,  the  thunder  of  guns  and  the  light- 
ning of  swords. 

When  I was  wearied  with  the  toil  incident  to 
our  extensive  commercial  operations  and  the 
labors  and  anxieties  of  battle  we  sat  upon  the 
sand  and  he  sang  to  me,  playing  the  accompani- 
ments on  his  guitar.  When  I hear  those  old 
songs  to-day  they  come  to  me  with  the  far  faint 
odor  of  the  breezes  that  swept  across  the  ocean 
in  that  long  gone  time  and  I hear  again  the 
golden  notes  of  that  melodious  voice  mingled 
with  the  soft  music  floating  out  from  the  touch 
of  his  fingers. 

Three  years  later  I saw  my  soldier  again. 
He  had  just  received  his  commission  as  cap- 
tain and  was  recruiting  his  company  at  Fort- 
ress Monroe  before  sailing  for  the  unknown 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


41 


West.  The  first  real  sorrow  came  to  me  when 
I watched  the  St.  Louis,  the  United  States 
transport,  go  out  to  sea  with  my  soldier  on 
board.  From  her  prow  floated  a flag  like  that 
which  had  waved  over  the  fort  we  built  on  the 
sands  in  that  time  when  life  had  lost  all  its 
troubles  and  the  sunshine  of  the  heart  filled 
earth  and  sea  and  sky  with  radiance.  I felt 
then  as  I had  not  before  realized  that  this  was 
my  soldier’s  flag  to  which  his  life  was  given  and 
to  my  view  the  stars  in  it  shone  with  a new 
glory. 

The  St.  Louis  was  bound  for  Puget  Sound 
where  was  the  new  station,  Fort  Bellingham, 
which  I thought  must  be  farther  than  the  end 
of  the  world.  Not  one  ship  of  our  whole  great 
fleet  in  the  olden  days  had  sailed  for  Puget 
Sound. 


V 


A KEEPSAKE  FOR  THE  ANGELS 

WHEN  we  went  home  Uncle  Charles 
came  to  the  wharf  to  meet  us.  He 
was  dressed  in  the  clothes  left  to  him 
by  my  grandfather’s  will  and,  dangling  from 
his  watch-chain,  glaring  at  us  in  bold  relief 
against  his  black  velvet  vest,  a set  of  artificial 
teeth  grinned  in  ghastly  manner  from  their 
gold  settings.  In  those  days  artificial  teeth 
were  not  common,  and  when  Mr.  Durkee,  a den- 
tist from  Connecticut,  came  into  our  neighbor- 
hood and  hung  out  his  sign,  all  of  a certain 
class  who  could  raise  money  enough  had  their 
teeth  taken  out  and  replaced  by  false  ones. 

That  year  when  my  grandmother  asked 
Uncle  Charles  what  he  would  like  for  a Christ- 
mas present  he  chose  “a  p’ar  of  dem  sto’  teef,” 
explaining  that  his  were  “moughty  nigh  wo’  out, 
chawin’  ’backer  en  a gnaskin’  de  mules  of  a 
week  days  en  de  sinners  of  a Sundays.” 

My  grandmother  reasoned  with  him  on  the 
42 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


43 


folly  of  making  the  exchange  but  he  had  set  his 
heart  upon  it  and  she,  with  her  habit  of  spoil- 
ing her  servants  by  indulging  them,  permitted 
him  to  he  measured  and  fitted  for  his  “sto’  teef,” 
of  which  he  was  so  proud  that  he  wore  them 
more  for  ornament  than  use,  displaying  them 
at  all  special  functions. 

As  Uncle  Charles  drove  us  home  he  had 
many  confidences  to  make  to  my  grandmother. 
The  most  important  was  about  little  Sara 
Elizabeth. 

“Dem  blin’  en  deef  chu’cli  visitors  of  we-alls 
— I don’  mean  no  disrespect  to  dar  reflictions — 
but  dey’s  spilin’  dat  li’l  Sara  ’Lizbef.  You 
knows,  dev  ’lowed  dat  gal  to  play  on  de  spinet 
of  a Sunday  mornin’s?— En  dance  chunes,  at 
dat?  En  dat  ain’t  all;  dey  ’sputes  so  wif  dey- 
se’fs  over  her  dat  it’s  scan’lous,  en  dar  ain’t  no 
gittin’  along  wid  ’em.” 

Little  Sara,  the  bone  of  contention  between 
the  two,  as  Uncle  Charles  said,  proved  in  a fair 
way  to  be  spoiled.  On  my  return  she  looked 
upon  me  as  an  intruder,  but  when  she  was  made 
to  feel  that  her  rights  were  not  to  be  infringed 
upon  she  welcomed  me  into  the  old  companion- 
ship. I took  great  comfort  in  her,  but  often 
(though  I kept  the  secret  in  my  heart)  the  un- 
guarded words  of  my  mammy,  “dat  chile  bleeged 
fer  ter  die  anyhow,”  occurred  to  me  and  made 


44 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


me  sorry  and  afraid,  yet  I knew  not  why,  for  I 
had  no  idea  of  death. 

One  night  I was  awakened  by  the  sound  of 
voices  and,  peeping  from  under  the  covers,  saw 
the  bald  head  of  our  old  family  physician,  Dr. 
Finney,  and  the  anxious  face  of  my  grand- 
mother, who  was  holding  the  big  brass  nursery 
candlestick.  I caught  the  word  “croup.”  Then 
their  voices  were  lowered  to  a whisper  as  they 
looked  toward  my  bed.  They  went  out  and 
closed  the  door  and  I lay  awake  a long 
time  thinking,  wondering  who  or  what  was 
“croup.” 

Next  morning  I awakened  long  after  my  usual 
hour  and  was  told  that  I must  be  very  quiet  for 
my  grandmother  had  a headache.  While  my 
mammy  was  dressing  me  she  sighed  and  looked 
mysteriously  wise,  and  between  the  fastening 
of  my  buttons  and  the  curling  of  my  hair  re- 
peated over  and  over  again,  “Lord  a massy  on 
us!  We’re  here  to-day  but  gone  to-morrow!” 

As  I was  tiptoeing  down  the  hall  my  grand- 
mother called  me.  She  was  sitting  in  her 
wrapper  before  a corn-cob  fire.  Taking  me 
upon  her  lap  and  rocking  me  she  tenderly 
stroked  my  hair.  Mammy,  shaking  her  head, 
leaned  against  the  mantel  and  moaned  and 
groaned.  I turned  away  and  looked  into  the 
crackling  fire  till  presently  the  beautiful  pic- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


45 


tures  in  the  burning  coals  made  me  break  the 
solemn  silence,  and  I said: 

“Look,  grandmother ! See ! A ship  of  coals 
loaded  with  falling  stars  and  Jack-er-my-lan- 
terns — Oh,  and  see ! There  is  a city  of  gold ! 
See  that  old  castle  tumbling  down.  See  the 
silver  cloud  going  so  fast  to  the  city  and  white 
flowers  and  sunshine  all  falling  down  and ” 

“Yes,  I see,  my  darling,”  replied  my  grand- 
mother, pressing  me  closely  to  her. 

“I  knowed  dat  chile  was  gwine  to  be  pestered 
seem’  sperits,  but,  Mistis,  dar  p’intedly  ain’t  no 
occasion  of  yo  ’couragin’  her  in  it  lak  you  is,” 
objected  my  mammy,  throwing  on  an  armful 
of  fresh  cobs  and  destroying  my  golden  glory 
pictures. 

“Now,  go  along,  darling,  and  eat  your  break- 
fast,” said  my  grandmother,  “and  then  you 
may  tell  Ole-Granny- Aggie  that  she  may  let  you 
go  into  the  weaving  room  and  give  you  the  old 
cards  and  some  of  the  waste  wool  to  card,  and 
if  you  are  very  good  she  may  let  you  run  the 
shuttle  awhile.  Tell  her  she  need  not  ‘toker’ 
off  her  stent  to-day,  but  just  take  care  of  you.” 

I stopped  for  a minute  and  looking  up  at  her 
said,  “And  little  Sara,  too,  please,  marm!” 
She  shook  her  head  and  shivered ; then  mammy 
took  me  away. 

It  was  always  enchanting  to  watch  Ole- 


46 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


Granny- Aggie  weave,  but  to  be  allowed  to  sit 
at  tbe  loom  and  slide  the  shuttle  through  with 
my  own  hands  was  a special  rapture.  Yet  this 
day  I did  not  enjoy  it,  for  I felt  that  something 
unusual  had  happened  and  associated  it  with 
my  little  friend. 

The  next  morning  mammy  got  out  my  new 
silk  reins  and  hitched  up  Mary  Frances  and 
Arabella,  my  “match  of  blacks,”  for  me  to  drive, 
and  as  we  returned  after  a long  race  I saw  an 
old  gentleman  with  bent  back  carrying  a beau- 
tiful white  box  into  the  house. 

“Oh,  how  pretty!  What  is  it  for?”  I asked 
my  grandmother. 

“A  little  jewel  casket,  my  darling,  to  hold  a 
keepsake  that  I am  going  to  send  to  the  angels. 
There,  there;  run  along  now  and  play.” 

I went  into  the  garden  where  our  own  little 
bed  of  white  violets  was  in  full  bloom,  and  sud- 
denly remembering  with  a pang  that  my  little 
Sara  had  wanted  to  gather  them  all  and  that  I 
would  let  her  have  only  what  I saw  fit  she 
should  have,  I said,  “She  shall  have  every  one 
now,”  and  gathering  my  apron  almost  full  I 
ran  into  the  house. 

The  door  of  the  room  which  had  been  closed 
to  me  for  two  days  had  been  accidentally  left 
ajar  and,  hearing  my  grandmother’s  voice,  I 
ran  in. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


47 


She  and  poor  Miss  Sophia  and  “Miss  Mary” 
and  several  of  the  neighbors  and  servants  were 
standing-  around  that  little  white  casket  rest- 
ing on  a table  in  the  center  of  the  room. 

“Is  the  keepsake  in  it?”  I asked. 

My  grandmother  lifted  me  np  and  there, 
sweetly  sleeping,  was  my  little  Sara  Elizabeth. 
I whispered  my  wish  to  put  the  violets  into 
her  lap  so  that  she  could  see  them  the  first 
thing  when  she  awakened  and  know  that  I was 
sorry  and  had  brought  her  both  our  shares. 
My  grandmother  held  me  while  I gently,  and 
with  no  word,  lest  I should  awaken  her,  put 
my  violets  into  her  arms  so  as  to  “s’prise  her 
when  she  waked.”  Then  I whispered  to  my 
grandmother  as  she  carried  me  away,  “Do 
angels  want  little  children  for  keepsakes?” 


VI 

AFRICAN  ROYALTY 

ONE  of  the  enchantments  of  my  childhood 
was  the  old  cabin  in  the  vale  at  the  en- 
trance to  the  grounds  of  the  mansion 
house  at  Holiday’s  Point,  where  the  gate- 
keeper, Uncle  Bosun  Keeling,  and  his  wife,  Aunt 
Charity,  lived.  I used  to  run  down  the  cypress- 
bordered  path  to  the  old  lodge  to  hear  him  tell 
“dem  Bible-tales”  and  to  see  Aunt  Charity’s 
shining  black  face  surmounted  by  her  flaming 
red  “haid-hankcher,”  a combination  artistic  and 
beautiful.  She  would  take  me  on  her  lap  and 
tell  the  old  legends  that  had  come  down  through 
generations  of  dusky  story-tellers. 

“Yas,  honey,”  she  would  say,  telling  me  one 
of  the  five  versions  of  the  origin  of  her  race, 
“we  was  all  niggers  once.  Dar  wa’n’t  no  white 
folks  at  all,  ’twel  one  day  de  Lord  was  tekin’ 
a interview  of  His  wu’ks  to  see  ef  dey  was 
good,  when  He  tuk  notus  dat  we-all  didn’t  ’pre- 
date what  He’d  done  for  us,  so  He  mekt  up  His 


48 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


49 


mind  to  come  down  to  de  earf  en  test  onr  lub 
en  gratichude  en  faif  in  His  holy  word  en  ’vide 
de  sheeps  fum  de  goats.  He  put  on  His  patum 
leather  boots  en  beaver  hat  en  tuck  His 
gold-headed  cane  en  come  ’long  down  de  golden 
stairs  en  th’oo  de  golden  gate,  down  de  golden 
lane  to  whar  de  road  forked  to  come  to  de  ye’th. 

“ ’Twas  de  springtime  of  de  yeah  en  de  whole 
face  of  de  ye’th  was  a bloomin’  en  a buddin’. 
De  paschers  was  all  green  en  bescattered  wid 
buttercups  en  clover  blossoms  en  de  cattles  on 
a t’ousan’  plains  was  a grazin’  on  ’em.  De 
birds  was  all  a singin’  chunes,  de  roses  a bud- 
din’  en  de  violets  en  Johnny-quils  en  liyercinfs 
a bloomin’,  de  trees  was  all  white-washed  en 
kivered  wid  leaves,  de  grape-wines  was  a per- 
fumin’ up  de  air,  en  de  orchards  was  pink  en 
white  en  green  all  over.  De  hens  was  all  a 
cacklin’,  en  de  chickens  en  ducks  en  goslin’s  all 
a hatchin’.  All  de  ole  sheeps  had  li’l  lambs  en 
some  of  ’em  had  two,  en  all  de  cows  was  givin’ 
three  gallons  to  de  pail. 

“De  Lord  was  s’prized  hisse’f  at  de  glorifica- 
tion of  His  handywu’k.  He  bowed  His  haid  in 
humble  somilichude,  en  was  jest  gwine  to  pray, 
when  He  heard  sump’n  go  kerchunk-kerchunk. 
He  drapped  His  eyes  en,  lo!  dar  was  a mud- 
tuckle  mekin’  for  a pond  of  muddy  water.  He 
looked  at  de  tuckle  en  He  looked  at  de  pond. 


50 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


Den  He  tuk  some  yeast  powders  en  flung’  ’em  in 
de  pond.  Dat  ’sturbed  de  waters,  en  dey  riz  en 
bubbled,  riz  en  bubbled,  ’twel  dey  was  as  cl’ar 
as  cryslum.  Den  He  blessed  de  pond  en  named 
it  de  Pool  of  ’Thesda. 

“He  went  ’long  den  to  de  co’tehouse,  for  ’twuz 
co’te  day  en  He  knowed  dem  niggers  was  gwine 
to  be  dar  ef  dey  could  git  dar.  En  dey  was, 
sho’  ’nough.  ’Co’se  de  niggers  didn’  know  de 
Lord  was  dar,  en  ef  dey  had  He  was  inwisible 
en  dey  couldn’t  see  ’Im  nohow.  But  de  Lord 
could  see  dem,  dough,  en  dey  was  behavin’ 
scan’lous.  Some  of  ’em  was  magestricks  en 
constubles  en  auctioneers;  some  was  swiggin’ 
cider  en  drams  en  ’simmon  beer.  Some  was 
racin’  hosses  en  fightin’  chickens  or  playin’ 
games  or  whittlin’  sticks  or  swoppin’  knives  or 
eatin’  hoss-cakes  en  watermillions.  Some  was 
’sputin’  en  quarlin’  en  foughtin’  en  some  was 
sittin’  on  dar  ham-bones  gossickin’  ’bout  one 
nuther. 

“De  Lord’s  heart  suttin’ly  was  troubled.  He 
spuk  out  in  a loud  woice  en  tole  ’em  to  go  to 
de  Pool  of  ’Thesda  en  bave  darse’fs.  Now  dem 
niggers  knowed  ebby  inch  of  dat  groun’  en  dey 
knowed  dar  wan’t  no  Pool  of  ’Thesda  dar;  but 
dem  dat  lubbed  en  serbed  de  Lord  en  feared 
His  holy  name  didn’  queschify  ’bout  de  pool. 
Dey  went  as  fars’  as  dey  could  en  baved  darse’fs 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


51 


en  dey  come  out  jest  as  white  as  ef  dey  had  been 
libin’  in  town  all  dar  libes  en  wearin’  sun- 
bonnets.  Dar  lub  en  faif  had  washed  away  dar 
brack  skins  en  mekt  ’em  white  as  de  blood  of  de 
lamb. 

“When  dey  went  back  to  de  co’tehouse  de 
yuthers  wanted  to  git  obedient  den,  too,  so  dey 
tuck  off  en  run  to  de  pon’.  De  supples’  en  de 
swif’es  dey  got  dar  firs’  en  come  out  mos’  as 
white  as  dat  firs’  passel,  sep’n  dar  eyes  en  dar 
hyar  en  dar  eye-brows  stayed  brack. 

“De  Chinesers  en  Injuns  en  Italyuns  en 
yuther  furriners  dey  sticked  dar  haids  in  firs’ 
en  unkinked  dar  hyar,  en  dey  come  out  ’twix’ 
a brindle  en  a brown.  But  dem  dar  lazy  nig- 
gers dat  didn’  lub  de  Lord  stayed  at  de  co’te- 
house drinkin’  drams  en  projickin’  en  cussin’ 
en  cyarin’  on  ’twel  ’twas  jamby  sundown,  den 
dey  jest  amble  darse’fs,  sa’nterin’  ’long  lak  dey 
had  de  whole  day  befo’  ’em — a singin’  chunes 
en  a chawin’  terbacker  en  smokin’  dar  pipes, 
en  when  dey  reached  de  pon’  dar  wan’  no  pon’ 
dar.  It  had  all  dried  up. 

“Dey  suttinly  was  one  s’prized  passel  of 
niggers,  for  dey’d  alius  called  demse’fs  de  ram- 
bunkshunners  en  dey  couldn’t  b’lieve  dar  eyes. 
Ebby  now  en  den  dey  come  ’cross  a li’l  moisch 
place  yer  en  a li’l  moisch  place  dar  en  dey’d 
run  en  pat  it  wid  de  palms  of  dar  han’s  en 


52 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


de  soles  of  dar  foots,  en  dat’s  all  de  white 
dar  is  ’bout  a nigger  fum  dat  day  to  dis — 
jest  de  palms  of  dar  han’s  en  de  soles  of  dar 
foots.” 

When  Aunt  Charity  would  tell  these  old  leg- 
ends Uncle  Bosun  would  sit  spell  bound  as  if  it 
were  the  first  time  he  had  ever  heard  them  and 
when  she  would  finish  he  would  shake  his  head 
with  pride  and  say : 

“My  ole  woman  she  sho’  kin  talk  lak  a readin’ 
book,  en  she  ain’t  one  er  dem  kin’  dat  licks  de 
’lasses  otfn  yo’  bread  en  den  calls  you  nigger. 
Needer  do  she  bek  de  bread  en  give  you  de  crus’, 
nor  eat  de  meat  en  give  you  de  hus’.  She  gives 
you  de  white  meat  ebby  time.  En  she  never 
follows  de  jay-bird’s  trade,  needer,  a carryin’ 
news,  en  dress — she  alius  dresses  sincerely.” 

He  was  a very  pious  old  man,  cherishing  ex- 
treme reverence  for  the  works  of  God,  with 
small  respect  for  the  innovations  of  man. 
When  Doctor  Durkee,  the  “tooth  doctor,”  ap- 
peared in  the  neighborhood  Uncle  Bosun’s  rigid 
principles  arose  in  opposition.  He  looked  with 
both  scorn  and  fear  upon  the  glistening  teeth 
that  were  the  pride  of  Uncle  Charles’s  heart — 
and  plead  with  him  “not  to  ’courage  dat  ole 
doctor  in  de  imitation  of  de  Lord’s  handy  wu’ks, 
fer  he  was  a back-slider  en  a robber,  en  den 
ag’in  don’t  de  Lord  say,  ‘Dou  shalt  not  mek 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


53 


any  graven  image  or  lakness  of  anyt’ing  dat  is 
in  de  heaven  above  or  dat  is  in  de  earf  beneaf 
or  dat  is  in  de  water  under  de  earf,’  en  dat 
means  yo’  teef  jest  de  same  as  ef  de  good  Lord 
bad  specified  teef  en  said,  ‘Charles  ’Rastus 
Tbessalonians,  yo’  teef  is  a graven  image,’  en 
ain’t  yo’  teef  under  de  earf  beneaf  ?” 

“No,”  said  Uncle  Charles,  “He  wouldn’  say 
dat  kase  my  teefs  is  in  my  mouf.” 

This  frivolous  reasoning  was  contemptuously 
set  aside  by  the  logical  mind  of  Uncle  Bosun, 
and  later  when  Dr.  Durkee  committed  various 
thefts  and  took  bis  departure  in  undignified 
baste,  my  father  asked  the  gate-keeper  bow  be 
knew  that  the  doctor  was  a rascal. 

“Lor,  Marse  Dae,”  be  said,  “I  lives  so  close  to 
de  things  dat  God  made  in  de  woods  en  on  de 
water  dat  I kin  scent  de  bad  fum  de  good  ev’y 
time.” 

Uncle  Bosun  claimed  royal  blood,  having  de- 
scended from  Uncle  Jack,  the  son  of  a king, 
who  was  brought  over  from  Africa  in  the  last 
slavesbip  that  deposited  its  cargo  at  Old  Os- 
borne on  the  James  River.  We  loved  to  bear 
him  tell  of  bis  royal  ancestor. 

“Yes,  chillun,”  be  would  say,  “yo’  Uncle  Jack, 
my  ancestor,  was  hired  out  to  de  oldes’  col- 
lege in  de  United  States,  William  en  Mary, 
named  atter  Marse  William  en  Miss  Mary  from 


54 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


London  who  give  ’em  de  groun’  to  build  de  col- 
lege on,  en  de  town  what  ’twas  built  in  was  de 
capital  in  dem  days  en  was  de  oldes’  corporal 
town  in  ole  Yirginny.  De  firs’  newspaper,  too, 
was  printed  dar.  Yo’  Uncle  Jack  had  charge  of 
all  de  books  at  de  college  en  dey  says  ev’y  time 
he’d  dus’  de  books  dat  Marse  Robert  Dinsmore 
give  to  de  college  he’d  stop  en  read  de  adbertise- 
ment  writ  on  ’em,  ‘Ubi  Libertas  Ibi  Patria,’  en 
say  to  hisse’f,  T wonder  why  on  earf  Marse 
Robert  Dinsmore  want  to  separate  dat  po’ 
couple  for,  when  be  was  rich  en  could  a bought 
Libi  en  Pat  bofe  hisse’f  ’stead  a orderin’  de 
yuther  man  to  buy  Libi  en  sayin’  he  was  gwine 
to  buy  Pat.’  ” 

Uncle  Bosun  told  us  how  the  preachers  of  all 
denominations,  though  they  were  half-starved 
in  those  days,  had  joined  together  and  bought 
Uncle  Jack  from  his  owners  and  given  him  his 
freedom.  He  was  not  only  good  but  brave  and 
always  spoke  his  mind  without  fear,  telling  the 
negroes  when  they  would  shout  at  revival  meet- 
ings that  it  was  scandalous  for  them  to  make 
so  much  fuss  about  such  a calm  and  serious 
thing  as  religion,  that  they  put  him  in  mind 
of  the  little  brooks  after  a rain,  soon  full,  then 
noisy,  roaring  and  rushing,  then  just  as  soon 
empty  again.  He  asked  them  to  try  to  be  more 
dignified  with  their  religion  and  more  like  the 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


55 


great,  broad,  deep  river,  for  be  said  be  bad 
noticed  that  tbe  more  ignorant  folks  were,  tbe 
more  shallow  tbeir  religion  was,  and  tbe  more 
noise  they  made  over  it,  just  like  tbe  dry  and 
no  account  leaves,  be  said,  that  always  make 
more  noise  when  tbe  wind  blows  through  them 
than  tbe  green  ones  do. 

A rich  man,  Mr.  Haxall,  owner  of  Haxall’s 
mills — tbe  mills  that  made  tbe  only  flour  in  the 
United  States  in  those  days  that  could  be  car- 
ried across  tbe  ocean  without  spoiling — bad, 
like  many  gentlemen  of  that  time,  a habit  of 
profanity.  One  day  when  be  was  swearing 
Uncle  Jack  asked  if  be  wouldn’t  please,  being 
a rich  and  mighty  man,  set  an  example  to 
tbe  world  and  quit  swearing.  Mr.  Haxall  re- 
plied : 

“Jack,  old  man,  what  for?  Pm  very  well 
satisfied  with  myself  as  I am.  I don’t  know 
wdiat  more  I want  than  I have.  In  fact,  as  far 
as  I can  see,  Jack,  I’m  just  as  well  off  as  any 
of  you  Christians.” 

“Jest  so,  Marser,  jest  so  wid  de  horgs,”  said 
Uncle  Jack.  “You  know,  sub,  I’s  often  stood  en 
watched  ’em  rootin’  ’mongst  de  leaves  in  de 
woods  en  findin’  as  many  acorns  as  dey  could 
pos’bly  eat  en  stuff  en  I ain’t  never  yet  seed 
one  of  dem  horgs  look  up  to  de  tree  fum  wbar 
de  acorns  drapped.” 


56 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


Mr.  Haxall,  leaning  on  his  cane,  walked  up 
and  down  the  floor  and  then  stopped  in  front 
of  Uncle  Jack  and  said: 

“Well,  old  man,  what  you  say  is  all  true 
and  after  this  I am  going  to  look  up  to  the 
tree.” 


VII 

OUR  FIRST  CURRENCY 

AMONG  my  childish  recollections  is  an  in- 
tricate  combination  of  great-grand- 
fathers, white  mulberries,  gold  dollars,  a 
lone  eye,  guinea  eggs,  pipes,  and  bloody  mas- 
sacres, all  centering  around  a visit  from  my 
own  great-grandfather,  Dr.  John  Phillips,  and 
his  friend,  Judge  John  Y.  Mason. 

“Somebody’s  cornin’  down  de  lane  en  it’s  ole 
Marser,  kase  I knows  him  by  his  high-top  gig 
en  his  star-face  critter,”  called  out  a little  col- 
ored boy,  George  Washington  Caesar  Napoleon 
Bonaparte,  whose  keen  eyes  had  caught  sight 
of  an  approaching  gig.  “Dar’s  anndder  gem- 
man  alongside  of  him  en  anndder  li’l  boy  settin’ 
in  de  foots  of  de  gig.” 

By  the  time  the  visitors  were  at  the  gate, 
heralded  by  the  barking  dogs  and  the  little  col- 
ored children  calling  “H-y-e-r  comes  ole  Marser, 
h-y-e-r  comes  ole  Marser !”  the  whole  family  had 
assembled  on  the  veranda  to  welcome  the  guests. 

57 


58 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


The  first  to  alight  was  a graceful,  courtly  old 
man  with  the  bearing  of  a soldier— my  great- 
grandfather. The  artificial  eye  which  had 
taken  the  place  of  one  of  those  provided  by 
Nature  was  a badge  of  heroism,  reminiscent  of 
the  war  of  1812.  After  affectionate  greetings 
from  children,  grandchildren,  great-grandchil- 
dren, servants  and  dogs,  he  held  out  his  hands 
to  his  companion  and  assisted  him  to  alight. 

“This,”  he  said,  “is  my  young  friend,  Judge 
John  Y.  Mason,  whom  you  know.” 

From  my  great-grandfather’s  point  of  view, 
Judge  Mason  may  have  been  youthful,  but  from 
mine  he  was  of  great  age,  less  venerable  than 
his  friend  and  companion  only  because  he  lacked 
the  distinguishing  title  of  patriarchal  relation- 
ship, and  looked  out  upon  the  world,  like  ordi- 
nary people,  through  two  eyes. 

“And  this,”  he  said,  jumping  the  little  boy 
out,  “is  my  still  younger  friend,  Ned  Drewry, 
whose  family  you  know.” 

Then  began  the  unpacking  of  the  gig-box, 
which  we  eagerly  watched.  I remember  being 
especially  interested  in  a bucket  of  white  mul- 
berries and  a basket  of  guinea  eggs. 

Later,  as  a reward  for  reciting  “Little  Drops 
of  Water,”  I received  a shiny  gold  dollar,  one 
of  the  first  minted. 

When  I hear  the  lament  of  to-day,  that  there 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


59 


is  no  money  in  poetry,  I recall  my  early  lesson 
to  the  contrary.  My  first  effort  having  been  so 
successful  I gave  “Twinkle,  Twinkle,  Little 
Star”  as  a voluntary,  in  the  mercenary  hope 
that  the  twinkles,  like  the  drops,  might  be 
transmuted  into  gold.  After  curtseying  to  my 
great-grandfather  my  thanks  for  the  dollar  I 
ran  across  the  room  and,  looking  inquiringly  at 
Judge  Mason,  asked: 

“Are  you  anybody’s  great-grandfather?  No, 
’course  you  couldn’t  be,  ’cause  you’ve  got  two 
eyes.” 

As  my  own  great-grandfather  was  the  only 
relation  of  that  rank  whom  I had  ever  seen,  it 
had  been  borne  in  upon  my  mind  that  a single 
eye  was  the  distinguishing  characteristic  of 
great-grandfathers. 

Judge  Mason’s  manner  of  smoking  next  at- 
tracted my  attention.  I had  never  seen  a pipe 
used  except  by  the  negroes  on  the  plantation. 

“Did  you  run  off  and  play  with  the  little  col- 
ored children  and  not  mind  your  black  mammy 
and  learn  bad  habits  when  you  were  a little  boy 
is  the  reason  you  smoke  pipes  now?” 

“No,”  he  replied.  “I  never  learned  any  bad 
habits  from  the  negroes.  They  have  very  few 
bad  habits.  All  the  bad  habits  I have  ever 
learned  were  from  white  people.” 

Knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  he  said : 


60 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


“My  child,  when  great-grandfathers  were 
little  babies  this — ” taking  out  his  tobacco-bag 
and  filling  his  pipe  from  it — “was  the  only  real 
money  in  this  country  and  was  of  greater  value 
than  the  kind  which  you  now  hold  in  your  little 
hand.” 

Then  he  went  on  to  tell  me  in  words  that  a 
child  could  understand  that  money  debts  were 
not  even  recoverable.  Tobacco  debts  only  were 
valid,  and  to  sell  bad  tobacco  or  pay  a debt  with 
it  was  a crime,  precisely  as  it  is  now  to  sell  or 
pay  counterfeit  money.  Tobacco  was  the  cur- 
rency, and  an  excess  was  as  injurious  as  an 
over-issue  of  bank  paper,  depreciating  on  the 
market  and  causing  everything  to  rise  in  price. 
Great  care  was  taken  to  burn  bad  tobacco,  and 
it  was  as  important  to  the  uniformity  of  the 
currency  in  those  days  as  is  now  the  exclusion 
of  counterfeits.  All  the  viewings,  censorships, 
inspections  and  regulations  of  the  amount  of 
tobacco  to  be  cultivated  by  each  planter,  the 
quality  to  be  gathered  from  each  plant,  the 
rules  prescribed,  were  as  important  as  the  laws 
of  the  mint  are  now. 

Judge  Mason’s  tobacco-bag  was  the  next  sub- 
ject of  my  inquiry. 

“ ’Tisn’t  cloth-cloth.  Is  it  tobacco-cloth?”  I 
asked.  “Did  people  have  tobacco-cloth  as  well 
as  tobacco-money  in  those  days?” 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


61 


“No;  this  is  rattlesnake  skin.  The  snake  was 
killed  by  Charles  Lewis,  who  lived  a long  time 
ago  in  my  county,  Augusta.  The  Indians  caught 
him,  tied  his  hands  behind  him  and  made  him 
walk  two  hundred  miles.  As  they  were  going 
along  a high  precipice  he  broke  the  cords  and 
jumped  down.  The  Indians  followed  and  he 
escaped  by  springing  over  a fallen  tree,  land- 
ing among  the  tall  weeds.  His  pursuers  did 
not  see  him  fall  and  they  jumped  over  both  the 
tree  and  the  man  and  ran  on  as  fast  as  they 
could.  Lying  there  he  heard  the  hissing  of  a 
snake  and  opening  his  eyes  saw  a large  rattle- 
snake almost  touching  him.  It  moved  its  rattles 
and  twice  they  rested  upon  his  ear  and  neck. 
He  was  so  numbed  with  fright  that  he  could 
not  move,  luckily  for  him,  for  if  he  had  moved 
a muscle  or  breathed  the  snake  would  have  bit- 
ten him.  Its  eyes  glared  into  his  and  it  seemed 
to  think  he  was  dead,  and  so  wriggled  away. 
He  picked  up  a stone  and  hit  it  upon  the  head, 
killing  it,  and  carried  home  the  rattles  and  skin 
and  this  bag  was  made  from  a piece  of  that 
skin.” 

The  mother  of  this  Charles  Lewis  was  the 
beautiful  daughter  of  the  Laird  of  Loch  Lyn, 
and  to  his  father,  John  Lewis,  was  accredited 
the  introduction  of  red  clover.  The  white  or 
wild  clover  was  of  indigenous  growth  and 


62 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


abounded  in  great  plenty,  but  the  red  clover 
was  not  known  until  the  blood  of  the  red  man, 
shed  by  the  Lewises  and  their  followers,  sud- 
denly dyed  the  trefoil  to  its  sanguinary  hue. 
The  Indians  fully  believed  this  legend  and  su- 
perstitiously  held  the  red  clover  sacred.  The 
superstition  spread  among  the  settlers  and  for 
a long  time  the  milk  of  a cow  that  had  eaten  the 
blood-stained  blossom  was  believed  to  be  tainted 
with  blood. 

Little  Ned  Drewry,  the  third  occupant  of  the 
gig,  with  a boy’s  natural  indifference  to  poetic 
effusion,  had  slipped  away  during  my  “twinkle 
little  star”  and  was  playing  “paterroller”  with 
the  colored  children  and  the  bloodhounds,  and 
my  elders  began  to  talk  of  the  man  for  whom 
he  was  named,  a victim  of  the  Nat  Turner  insur- 
rection. I was  not  usually  permitted  to  hear 
such  gruesome  stories,  but  if  they  thought  of 
me  at  all  they  must  have  supposed  that  I was 
too  young  to  understand  or  too  sleepy  to  notice. 
So  they  told  some  of  the  painful  incidents  con- 
nected with  the  startling  episode  of  1832,  while 
I leaned  back  in  my  chair  and  drooped  my  little 
head.  Judge  Mason’s  sister,  Mrs.  Boykin,  my 
grandmother’s  friend  at  Old  Point  Comfort,  had 
come  near  being  killed  in  the  insurrection.  She 
was  saved  by  her  maid,  who  hid  her  in  a wood- 
pile  till  the  danger  was  over. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


63 


Thus  the  simple-hearted,  modest,  unassuming 
old  man  sat  with  his  long  fig-stem  Powhatan 
clay  pipe  in  his  mouth,  smoking  and  talking  and 
making  history  for  a little  child  who  never  for- 
got the  stories  he  told.  Judge  Mason  was  given 
all  the  honors  of  his  State — ten  years  a Mem- 
ber of  the  Virginia  Assembly,  six  years  her 
Representative  in  Congress,  a Judge  of  the 
United  States  Court  for  Virginia,  Secretary  of 
the  Navy  under  President  Tyler,  Attorney-Gen- 
eral and  Secretary  of  the  Navy  under  President 
Polk,  Minister  to  France  in  the  Pierce  admin- 
istration, one  of  the  three  who  drew  up  the 
Ostend  Manifesto — all  these  he  was  to  the 
world. 

To  me  he  has  always  remained  the  gentle- 
mannered  man  with  sweet  face  and  soft  voice 
who  told  the  old-time  stories  in  my  plantation 
home  while  all,  from  the  master  to  the  humblest 
servant  and  the  smallest  child,  listened  with 
eager  attention  and  delighted  hearts.  Two 
years  before  the  opening  of  the  war  between 
the  States  my  grandmother’s  heart  was  sad- 
dened by  the  news  from  Paris  of  the  death  of 
this  old  friend. 


VIII 


YULETIDE 

IT  was  Christmas  Eve  at  Holiday’s  Point 
and,  in  accordance  with  the  custom  of  gen- 
erations, the  children  and  grandchildren 
were  gathered  in  an  unbroken  circle  around 
the  old  hearthstone. 

In  my  grandfather’s  day  the  neighbors  called 
the  old  home  Holiday’s  Point  because  of  the 
numerous  holidays  given  to  the  servants.  The 
community  held  that  if  my  grandfather  had 
framed  the  almanac  he  would  have  put  into  it 
twice  as  many  days  as  did  the  Arabs  and 
Romans,  that  he  might  have  more  holidays  to 
bestow  upon  his  slaves. 

The  old-fashioned  house  on  the  Nansemond 
River,  between  Suffolk  to  the  right  and  Norfolk 
to  the  left,  was  built  of  brick  imported  from 
England.  In  shape  like  an  L,  the  four  rooms 
on  the  first  floor  were  divided  by  a passage  fif- 
teen feet  wide ; dining-room  and  library  on  one 
side,  parlor  and  chamber  on  the  other.  Four 

64 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


65 


large  open  fireplaces  gave  warmth  and  cheer- 
fulness to  the  corridor.  On  the  first  floor  of 
the  L was  the  nursery  and  above  it  the  chil- 
dren’s room,  the  name  of  which  was  never 
changed  because,  in  relation  to  the  household, 
its  occupants  remained  children  to  the  end  of 
the  chapter,  however  the  years  might  age  them 
in  the  view  of  the  outside  world. 

The  house  fronted  the  river,  which  was  con- 
cealed by  a heavy  growth  of  trees  until  the 
door  was  reached  through  long  lanes  of  cypress 
lined  with  rows  of  cedar,  when  a full  view  of 
the  water  for  miles  was  presented.  Hidden  in 
the  woods  was  one  of  the  stables,  in  which  old 
Starlight  had  her  home  near  enough  to  the 
cabin  to  answer  “Ung’  Bosun’s”  whistle. 

My  mother,  as  usual,  had  permitted  me  to 
come  to  Holiday’s  Point  the  day  before  Christ- 
mas, the  lighting  of  the  Yule  Log  being  one  of 
my  greatest  joys.  Away  back  in  the  early  dawn 
of  my  infantile  mind  lurked  a hazy  memory  of 
the  time  when  my  little  hand  had  held  the  candle 
that  lit  the  old  log  at  the  back  of  the  great 
fireplace.  That  privilege  was  no  longer  mine. 
Other  children  had  since  entered  the  family 
circle,  and  the  youngest  child  on  the  plantation, 
whether  white  or  black,  was  the  one  always 
selected  to  touch  off  the  Yule  Log. 

Another  delightful  sensation  preliminary  to 


66  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


Christinas  day  at  Holiday’s  Point  was  the  sight 
of  “Uncle  Charles”  driving  up  from  the  river 
waving  a paper  above  the  load  of  Christmas 
things  and  warning  us  that  it  contained  in- 
structions from  Santa  Claus  that  all  the  con- 
tents of  the  cart  should  be  put  away  in  the 
storehouse  until  he  should  come  on  Christmas 
eve,  and  if  anyone  should  touch  any  of  the 
boxes  or  ask  questions  about  what  was  inside  of 
them  all  the  good  things  would  turn  to  ashes 
and  sawdust  and  there  would  be  nothing  left 
when  Christmas  came,  adding,  “ ’Member  what 
Santa  Claus  did  to  Miss  Cinderelly  when  she 
didn’t  mind  him,  stayin’  out  late  at  night.” 

Though  the  awesome  paper  was  only  a bill  of 
lading,  which  Uncle  Charles  knew  very  well,  be- 
lieving him  we  shrank  before  it  in  terror.  I 
watched  the  unloading  curiously,  and  the  col- 
ored children,  huddled  together  on  the  quarter- 
kitchen  doorsteps,  pulled  down  each  other’s 
heads  and  whispered  mysteriously  as  the  boxes 
and  barrels  were  taken  out  and  their  contents 
announced.  There  was  the  hogshead  of  New 
Orleans  molasses,  with  its  thick  layer  of  sugar 
at  the  bottom,  the  long  peaked  loaves  of  white 
sugar  under  their  thin  blue  “fool’s-caps,”  the 
cases  of  raisins,  dates,  figs  and  tamarinds,  bar- 
rels of  nuts,  oranges  and  crackers,  boxes  of 
cheese  and,  slyly  pushed  behind  them,  hampers 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


67 


mysteriously  marked  “sundries,”  which  we  at 
once  associated  with  the  coming  visit  of  Santa 
Claus  himself. 

When  the  rays  of  the  sun  were  long  in  the 
west  the  cheerful  note  of  the  Yule  Log  was 
heard.  The  great  hickory  log,  which  had  lain 
on  its  forked  branch  support  through  months 
of  golden  sunshine  and  mellowing  rain,  was 
carried  in  on  the  shoulder  of  the  strongest  negro 
on  the  plantation,  followed  by  a rollicking  troop 
of  Christmas  revelers,  white  and  black,  and 
next  year’s  log  was  put  on  the  Yule  Log  fork, 
which  was  never  left  empty. 

The  Yule  Log  was  laid  at  the  back  of  the 
great  fireplace  and  in  front  of  it  were  piled 
cobs,  chips  and  kindling  wood,  known  to  the 
plantation  servants  as  “light  ’ood,”  a contrac- 
tion for  “light  wood,”  which  was  the  heart  of 
the  pine.  It  was  lit  with  a wax  candle  made 
in  the  home  kitchen  by  Aunt  Dilsey,  a candle 
in  which  I felt  a proprietary  interest,  having 
watched  with  fascinated  eyes  the  process  of  its 
manufacture.  Aunt  Dilsey  had  let  me  draw 
one  of  the  doubled  and  twisted  cotton  strands 
through  a tube  in  the  tin  mould  to  form  the 
wick,  and  I felt  like  a conquering  hero  when 
the  end  of  the  string  emerged  from  the  point 
of  the  tube.  There  were  six  of  these  tubes  in 
Aunt  Dilsey’s  mould,  and  when  they  were  all 


68 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


provided  with  wicks  she  allowed  me  to  thrust 
through  the  loops  at  the  top  of  the  mould  the 
little  sticks  which  rested  on  the  frames  and 
held  the  strands  in  place.  Then  she  tied  the 
wicks  very  tightly  at  the  ends.  I watched  the 
melted  white  wax  poured  into  the  tubes,  feeling 
as  if  I were  assisting  at  a magic  incantation. 
The  time  of  greatest  excitement  was  when,  after 
the  carefully  built  structure  had  stood  all  night 
in  a cool  place  to  harden,  Aunt  Dilsey  would 
cut  off  the  knots  at  the  bottom  of  the  tube,  take 
hold  of  the  cross-sticks  and  pull  till  six  long, 
beautiful  white  waxen  cylinders  would  come 
out,  each  with  a tuft  of  soft  white  cotton  at  the 
end.  Every  time  I saw  them  emerge  from  their 
cells  a separate  and  distinct  miracle  seemed  to 
have  been  wrought.  I have  yet  a pair  of  these 
moulds. 

One  of  the  candles  was  lighted  and  placed  in 
the  hand  of  my  little  brother,  the  youngest  of 
the  family  group.  My  father  guided  the  tiny 
hand  until  the  flame  formed  a cross  around 
which  the  tongues  of  fire  leaped  and  caught  the 
log,  embracing  it  lovingly,  climbing  upward  and 
turning  blue  and  crimson  and  golden  and  white 
and  then  mingling  in  a glorified  web  of  color. 
Myriads  of  sparkles  shot  up  the  old  chimney, 
like  Christmas  prayers  flying  heavenward.  The 
crackling  of  the  wood  and  the  fluttering  of  the 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


69 


flames  joined  in  a Christmas  carol  for  all  the 
world. 

Not  the  smallest  fragment  of  the  log  must 
be  left  over  after  the  twelve-day  feast.  It  had 
lain  seasoning  in  the  sunshine  and  the  starshine, 
in  the  rain  and  in  the  wind,  in  the  frost  and  in 
the  dew,  in  winter  cold  and  summer  heat,  that  it 
might  be  well  prepared  to  give  itself  wholly  to 
the  sacrifice.  Had  a remnant  remained  in  the 
ashes,  disaster  would  have  marked  the  year 
until  the  next  Yule  Log  had  removed  the 
ban  by  entirely  disappearing.  Virginia  had 
not  received,  with  the  traditional  heritage,  the 
Old  World  custom  of  preserving  a fragment  of 
one  Yule  Log  to  serve  as  a lighting  torch  for 
the  next  and  to  ward  off  evil  demons  until 
Christmas  came  again.  The  servants  were  to 
have  holiday  while  there  was  a scrap  of  it  left. 

The  ashes  of  the  Yule  Log  were  carefully 
saved  apart  from  the  others,  as  they  were  of 
peculiar  sacredness.  Lye  made  from  them  was 
of  magic  efficacy  in  the  manufacture  of  soap, 
bringing  it  to  a much-desired  degree  of  hard- 
ness and  excellence.  The  negroes  used  the  lye 
to  kill  evil  spirits  and  free  themselves  from  the 
sins  they  had  committed  during  the  year. 

Old  Santa  Claus’s  rack,  the  “chimbly  rack,” 
made  of  black  walnut  and  handsomely  decora- 
ted, with  nails  driven  into  it  on  which  the  stock- 


70 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


ings  were  to  be  hung,  was  brought  in  by  Uncle 
Charles  and  placed  above  the  marble  mantel- 
piece. Over  each  nail  was  printed  the  name  of 
the  one  for  whom  it  was  intended.  Aunt  Se- 
rena brought  in  the  basket  of  stockings  that  she 
had  knit  of  the  finest  spun  cotton  or  wool  and 
hung  them  on  the  nails,  singing  her  Christmas 
incantation,  “Christmas  comes  but  once’t  a yeah, 
En  ebby  las’  niggah  has  his  slieah.”  The  loved 
ones  who  had  gone  before  were  remembered 
and  stockings  for  them  were  hung  upon  the 
rack.  Their  gifts  were  of  money  to  be  used  in 
providing  Christmas  cheer  for  the  unfortunate, 
the  bereaved  and  the  lonely.  Thus  was  the 
memory  of  those  who  had  passed  beyond  kept 
in  grateful  hearts. 

From  the  wall  above  the  portrait  of  my 
grandfather  Underwood,  with  long  hair  and 
velvet-flowered  vest  and  rolls  of  cravat,  looked 
seriously  down.  I had  never  seen  him,  but  my 
grandmother  said  that  “he  believed  in  God, 
woman  and  blood;  was  proud  but  not  haughty, 
hospitable,  generous,  firm  and  unchangeable 
in  his  opinions,  quiet  and  commanding,  affec- 
tionate, courting  responsibilities  instead  of 
shirking  them.” 

For  weeks  all  had  been  busy  with  prepara- 
tions. The  wood  had  been  cut  and  piled,  the 
corn  gathered,  the  pigs  killed,  the  mince-meat 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


71 


and  souse  and  fruit  cake  prepared,  the  sausage 
chopped  and  the  hominy  beaten,  the  winter 
clothes  all  spun,  woven  and  made.  We  sat  by 
the  fire  with  rest,  peace  and  wonder  in  our 
hearts,  cracking  nuts  and  roasting  apples,  the 
old  silver  punch-bowl  of  apple-toddy  steaming 
on  the  table,  while  we  listened  to  stories  of 
olden  times  and  of  times  that  never  were.  My 
uncle  in  his  cadet  uniform,  home  for  the  holi- 
days on  furlough  from  the  Virginia  Military 
Institute,  told  us  fascinating  tales  of  soldier- 
boy  life,  sending  delicious  thrills  of  joy  and 
terror  through  every  nerve. 

Presently  my  black  mammy  took  me  in  her 
motherly  arms  and  carried  me  along  the  hall 
through  the  middle  of  the  house,  flanked  by 
doors  opening  into  the  living  rooms,  up  the  wide 
stairway  into  another  long  corridor  bounded 
by  the  same  number  of  doors  leading  into  bed- 
rooms all  in  their  Christmas  dress  of  arbor- 
vitas,  holly  and  mistletoe.  In  each  of  the  fire- 
places were  wood  and  kindling  to  be  lit  when  the 
guests  should  arrive  on  the  morrow.  Into  the 
prettiest  and  smallest  room  she  carried  me  and 
put  me  into  my  little  eider-downy  trundle  bed. 

The  next  morning  I was  awakened  by  the 
music  of  the- Christmas  horns  and  the  popping 
of  firecrackers.  When  I had  been  dressed  I was 
taken  to  the  dining-room,  where  my  grand- 


72 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


mother  stood  by  a table  whereon  was  a large 
bowl  of  egg-nog  from  which,  with  a silver  ladle, 
she  was  filling  glasses  for  us  all,  for  even  the 
babies  in  old  Virginia  were  given  a taste  of 
egg-nog  on  Christmas  morning. 

After  breakfast  my  grandmother  went  to  ser- 
vice and  would  return  with  guests  who  were  to 
come  to  us  after  the  Christmas  sermon  in  the 
lavishly  decorated  village  church. 

Soon  the  first  carriage  rolled  into  the  yard, 
the  coachman  proudly  flourishing  the  whip, 
which  he  used  merely  as  an  insignia  of  his  of- 
fice. “Dar  dey  come!  Dar  dey  come!  Dar 
dey  come!”  We  all  ran  out  to  welcome  the 
visitors.  The  carriage  doors  were  opened,  the 
steps  folded  up  on  the  inside  were  let  down, 
and  the  servants  called  out  “Christmus  gif’, 
Marse,  Christmus  gif’,  Missus,”  all  holding  out 
their  hands  and  clamoring  as  my  uncle  emerged 
from  the  coach,  “I  cotch  him  firs’ ! I cotch  him 
firs’!  I cotch  Miss  firs’,  didn’  I,  Marse?”  each 
claiming  the  reward,  regardless  of  actual  prior- 
ity in  time. 

My  uncle  was  immaculate  in  frock  coat  and 
trousers  of  black  broadcloth,  new  boots,  snowy 
linen  front  trimmed  profusely  with  ruffles,  high 
collar  and  stock  and  shining  silk  hat.  He  turned 
with  courtly  grace  and  helped  Auntie  from  the 
carriage. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


73 


Auntie  was  the  wonder  of  my  childhood.  I 
fancied  that  if  I should  be  very  good  and  learn 
my  lessons  perfectly  and  avoid  giving  trouble 
to  my  elders,  and  say  my  prayers  and  read  my 
Bible  at  the  rate  of  one  chapter  every  day  and 
five  on  Sunday  maybe  the  Lord  would  let  me 
grow  up  as  proper  and  as  smart,  but  never  as 
religious,  as  Auntie.  In  the  meantime  I liked 
to  stand  in  remote  corners  unobserved  and  im- 
agine that  I was  forming  myself  upon  her.  Her 
speckless,  wrinkleless,  swishing  new  black  bro- 
caded silk  frock  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
moulded  around  her.  Her  crinoline  stood  out 
in  a perfectly  balanced  symmetrical  balloon  of 
unapproachable  beauty.  Her  oval  face  held 
just  the  right  proportion  of  pink  and  white  and 
her  mouth  was  bowed  at  the  temperance  curve. 
Her  sharp  gray  eyes  looked  into  the  center  of 
things.  She  was  a strict  Methodist,  a fierce 
Whig,  an  uncompromising  moralist. 

A little  boy  was  handed  out  and  then  a 
screaming  bundle  which  turned  out  to  be  a 
baby  girl. 

The  carriage  was  laden  with  boxes  and  pack- 
ages of  Christmas  gifts — a present  for  each 
servant  and  other  articles  to  be  put  with 
our  Christmas  stockings  still  hanging  on  the 
rack. 

From  the  next  carriage  my  father  and  mother 


74  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


alighted — my  father,  always  my  ideal,  tall, 
stately,  erect  as  an  Indian,  seemed  to  me  more 
than  usually  handsome  as  he  lifted  me  up  to 
a level  with  his  classic  face.  His  holiday  at- 
tire, snowy  ruffles,  rigid  stock,  black  broadcloth 
and,  above  all,  the  flowers  of  his  brocaded  vest, 
were  to  me  an  inexhaustible  source  of  delight. 
My  beautiful  mother’s  coal-black  hair,  without 
wave  or  crinkle,  was  carried  plainly  from  her 
face  and  wound  in  a plaited  coil.  She  was  very 
fair  and  her  cheeks  looked  as  if  they  had  stolen 
two  of  the  pink  roses  from  the  garden  of  May. 
Her  eyes  were  like  sparkling  sapphires.  Her 
black  moire-antique  dress  had  wide  bishop 
sleeves,  and  she  wore  a white  crepe  shawl  that, 
falling  back,  revealed  the  square  of  fine  em- 
broidered white  thread  cambric  around  her 
neck,  crossing  in  front  to  form  a V. 

When  all  the  family  carriages  had  come  a 
stranger  might  have  wondered  if  grandmother’s 
house  could  hold  the  many  who  claimed  her 
Yuletide  hospitality.  We  knew  that  her  home 
was  measured  by  her  heart. 

My  father,  the  oldest  son-in-law,  was  the  first 
to  take  down  his  Christmas  stocking  from 
Santa’s  rack.  He  was  always  sure  of  a knife, 
a black  stock  and  a silk  bandanna,  whatever  else 
old  Santa  might  have  left  for  him.  His  last 
year’s  knife  was  then  given  to  the  foreman. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


75 


We  who  could  not  reach  so  high  were  held  up 
to  take  down  our  stockings. 

The  plantation  servants  never  failed  to  offer 
their  tributes  of  affection  to  the  Master  and  his 
family  and  to  receive  gifts  from  them.  Among 
their  numerous  presents  were  always  a plug  of 
tobacco,  a pipe  and  a bandanna  handkerchief 
for  each.  All  the  servants  who  had  been  work- 
ing away  from  home  came  back  at  Christmas 
and  added  their  gifts  to  those  “w’at  Marse 
Santa  had  done  fotch  down  de  chimbly.”  Many 
of  my  grandmother’s  servants  had  been  away 
from  the  home  plantation,  being  allowed  to 
choose  their  places  of  service  and  to  return  if 
they  did  not  find  them  satisfactory. 

Dinner  was  the  great  event  that  followed. 
Every  leaf  had  been  put  into  the  old  mahogany 
table,  and  another  table  added  at  each  end.  A 
turkey  which  had  been  penned  up  for  weeks  to 
fatten  and  become  tender,  stuffed  with  pecan 
nuts,  lay  in  delicious  brownness  on  a china 
platter.  Opposite  was  a roast  pig  with  an 
orange  in  its  mouth,  “kase  pigs  kin  have  apples 
every  day,  but  come  Christmus  ’course  even 
pigs  must  have  sump’n  extra,”  my  mammy  ex- 
plained. On  one  side  of  the  table  was  a huge 
dish  of  fried  oysters,  on  the  other  an  old  Smith- 
field  ham,  baked  as  it  could  be  only  by  one  born 
to  the  art.  Sweet  and  sour  pickles  and  pre- 


76 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


serves,  for  which  Aunt  Dilsey  was  famous,  were 
scattered  about  among  all  the  vegetables  known 
to  a Virginia  plantation.  On  a side  table  were 
a saddle  of  mutton,  a round  of  beef  and  a bowl 
of  chicken  salad.  On  another  table  was  the  des- 
sert— s i 1 1 i b u b,  tipsy-cake,  charlotte-russe, 
mince-pies,  plain  cake  and  fruit  cake,  to  be  fol- 
lowed by  the  plum  pudding,  flaming  with  magic 
fires  which  must  be  left  to  burn  out  of  them- 
selves, lest  some  of  the  glow  they  held  in  their 
fiery  hearts  should  fail  to  be  diffused  through- 
out our  lives  in  the  coming  year.  The  sideboard 
glistened  with  decanters  and  glasses  and  great 
bowls  of  apple-toddy  and  egg-nog. 

All  the  good  things  left  were  sent  to  supple- 
ment the  feast  of  the  servants  which  they  had 
spent  days  in  preparing.  It  was  spread  in  the 
wide  old  weaving-room,  the  loom  being  hidden 
by  decorations  of  holly  and  mistletoe.  We  went 
in  to  see  their  table  with  its  beautiful  orna- 
mentations, loaded  with  goodies,  ’possum  and 
sweet  potatoes  at  each  end.  The  ’possums  had 
been  caught  early  and  fed  in  a lavishly  hospi- 
table manner,  that  they  might  wax  fat  and  juicy 
for  the  feast. 

After  dinner  papa  and  the  uncles,  followed  by 
the  boy  friends  and  cousins,  went  out  to  the 
office  in  the  yard  a short  distance  from  the 
mansion  house  and  soon  such  mirthful  peals  is- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


77 


sued  therefrom  that  curiosity  called  us  all  out 
and  the  house  was  deserted  while  we  sat  listen- 
ing to  such  stories  and  jokes  as  we  shall  never 
enjoy  again.  Then  they  talked  of  fox  hunts, 
of  the  prancing  gray  and  the  good  old  red  that 
had  carried  them  to  victory,  the  music  of  the 
horns,  the  baying  of  the  hounds,  the  laughing 
girls,  all  eager  for  the  brush.  Crouched  by  my 
grandmother’s  side,  I heard  about  last  year’s 
crops,  the  condition  of  the  roads,  the  neighbor- 
hood news,  the  latest  styles  in  collars  and  stocks, 
politics,  bits  of  history  and  appreciations  of 
literature. 

At  night  “Fiddling  Jim”  was  called  in,  and 
in  the  room  where  the  Yule-fire  burned  there 
was  a dance,  opening  with  the  minuet  and  wind- 
ing up  with  the  Virginia  reel.  In  all  the  dances 
my  grandmother  joined  with  a lightness  and 
grace  that  would  have  done  honor  to  sixteen. 
Youth  no  more  than  age  served  as  a bar  to 
pleasure,  and  I danced  the  Highland  fling  and 
other  fancy  dances. 

Then  the  sandman  came  by  and  mammy  took 
me  up  to  my  little  trundle  bed.  Half  lost  be- 
tween waking  and  sleeping,  I heard  the  crunch- 
ing of  the  snow  beneath  the  tread  of  horses  and 
the  roll  of  wheels  and  knew  that  some  of  the 
guests  who  lived  near  were  returning  to  their 
homes.  Melodies,  dance-songs  and  the  shuffling 


78 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


and  pattering  of  feet,  mingled  with  the  thrum 
of  the  banjo,  bones  and  fiddle,  floated  from  the 
negro  quarters. 

Soon  old  mammy  and  her  turban,  the  black 
faces,  the  hand-fed  lamb,  the  goats  and  dogs, 
the  coons  and  the  rabbits,  the  peacocks’  gor- 
geous big-eyed  tails,  and  long-whiskered  Santa 
Claus,  my  grandmother,  my  mother’s  lovely  eyes 
and  the  Blessed  Babe  in  the  manger,  all  got 
mixed  up  in  a tangle  of  shadows  and  came  slid- 
ing between  the  peeping,  twinkling  stars  on  a 
moonbeam  into  the  room  and  danced  around  my 
trundle  bed. 

With  my  tender  little  heart  full  of  child  love 
and  unwavering  faith,  my  wee  soul  borne  on  the 
higher  sentiments  of  adoration,  faith  and  spirit- 
ual sympathy,  my  Christmas  dolly  clasped  close 
in  my  arms,  my  lips  wreathed  in  mysterious 
smiles,  I laughed  and— a-n-d — a-n — Christmas 
was  over. 


IX 

GREENBRIER  WHITE  SULPHUR  SPRINGS 

ONLY  twice  had  I seen  my  Soldier  since 
with  tearful  eyes  I watched  the  United 
States  transport,  St.  Louis,  bear  him 
away  to  join  in  the  frontier  warfare,  and  later 
to  play  his  important  part  in  holding  San  Jnan 
and  other  Pacific  Islands  against  the  British. 
Occasionally  letters  came  from  that  far-off  sun- 
set shore  in  answer  to  my  little  printed  notes 
before  I had  learned  to  write  well. 

The  last  time  I had  seen  him  was  at  the 
Greenbrier  White  Sulphur  Springs,  where, 
though  still  a child,  I held  that  he  was  pledged 
to  me  and  resented  his  attentions  to  the  belles 
nearer  his  own  age.  Amused  and  pleased  by 
this,  he  humored  me  by  devoting  most  of  his 
mornings  to  joining  in  my  games  and  assisting 
me  in  sketching,  and  by  dancing  in  the  evening 
with  no  one  but  me  until  the  children’s  bed-time 
came,  when  the  ballroom  was  reluctantly  given 
up  to  the  grown  people.  One  Baltimore  beauty 


79 


80 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


took  my  Soldier  to  task  for  kis  bad  taste  in  danc- 
ing with  a child,  thereby  cancelling  the  little 
friendship  which  had  existed  between  them. 

White  Sulphur  Springs,  situated  in  a valley 
surrounded  by  hills  and  mountains,  was  the 
most  celebrated  watering-place  in  Virginia.  It 
was  known  to  the  Indians  as  the  most  important 
lick  of  the  deer  and  elk.  Its  medicinal  quali- 
ties first  became  known  in  1772,  when  an  Indian 
maiden,  suffering  from  a disease  which  baffled 
the  skill  of  the  “medicine  men,”  was  healed  by 
its  waters.  It  is  a beautiful  and  enchanting 
spot,  the  valley  opening  half  a mile  in  breadth, 
winding  in  graceful  undulations  from  east  to 
west  beyond  the  line  of  vision.  The  fountain 
issues  from  the  foot  of  a gentle  slope  which  ends 
in  the  low  interval  of  a beautiful  river.  The 
ground  ascends  from  the  spring  eastward, 
spreading  into  a lawn  covering  fifty  acres. 
Over  the  fountain  was  a stately  Doric  dome, 
supported  by  twelve  large  pillars  and  sur- 
mounted by  a statue  of  Hygeia  looking  toward 
the  rising  sun.  A short  distance  from  the 
spring  were  the  hotel,  dining-hall  and  ball- 
room. The  rest  of  the  ground  was  occupied  by 
cottages,  some  of  brick,  some  of  wood,  and  a 
few  of  logs,  whitewashed.  The  cabins  were  all 
painted  white. 

The  winding  roads,  leading  away  into  an  en- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


81 


chanted  world  of  greenery,  were  veritable 
Cupid’s  paths,  opening  sometimes  into  the 
springtime  vales  of  gay  flirtation,  sometimes 
into  the  warm,  deep  dells  of  love.  Many  were 
the  belles  and  beaux  who  met  their  fate  amid 
the  leaf-walled  environment  of  Greenbrier  and 
more  matches  were  made  there  than  in  heaven. 

My  Soldier’s  furlough  soon  came  to  a close 
and  he  left,  by  chance,  the  day  we  did.  I shall 
never  forget  the  ride  on  the  top  of  the  old  stage- 
coach, the  wonderful  red  and  gold  foliage,  the 
birds  that  sang  in  the  autumn  trees,  the  good 
dinner  at  the  hotel,  the  stories  told  me  by  my 
Soldier,  who  knew  everything,  I thought.  Of 
the  name  Greenbrier  he  said: 

“Old  Colonel  John  Lewis,  whose  grandson 
you  danced  with  this  summer,  named  this  river 
in  1751  because  of  its  thick  growth  of  green- 
briers  in  which  his  son,  Andrew,  was  once  en- 
tangled. It  had  been  owned  by  the  French.  In 
1749  a hunter,  wandering  through  the  woods, 
came  to  the  river-bank  and  observed  that  the 
water  ran  in  a direction  opposite  from  the  usual 
course  and  reported  it,  exciting  the  curiosity  of 
two  New  Englanders,  Jacob  Martin  and  Stephen 
Sewall.  They  took  up  land  there,  living  to- 
gether in  a little  cabin  until  one  day  they  quar- 
reled and  separated.  One  made  his  home  in 
a hollow  tree,  the  other  keeping  the  cabin  in 


82 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


which  they  had  formerly  dwelt  in  peace  with 
the  world,  themselves  and  each  other.  They 
agreed  never  to  say  anything  to  each  other  but 
‘Good  morning,  Mr.  Martin/  ‘Good  morning, 
Mr.  Sewall/  confining  themselves  to  this  lim- 
ited conversation  for  the  remainder  of  their 
years.” 

My  Soldier  told  me  of  the  Indian  wars  after 
peace  had  been  confirmed  between  England  and 
France,  the  Dunmore  wars,  the  massacre  at 
Muddy  Creek  where,  under  the  guise  of  friend- 
ship, the  Indians  had  descended  upon  the  set- 
tlers and  destroyed  their  village,  the  attack  of 
two  hundred  Indians  upon  Donnally  Fort,  and 
the  bravery  of  the  old  negro,  Dick  Pointer, 
whose  freedom  was  purchased  by  the  State  of 
Virginia  in  reward  for  his  services.  In  his 
helpless  old  age  an  unsuccessful  effort  was  made 
to  secure  a pension  for  him.  Comparing  his 
fate  with  that  of  alleged  soldiers  of  later  years 
who  volunteered  to  do  guard  duty  around  their 
homes  for  three  days,  receiving  pensions  for 
their  courageous  efforts,  one  might  wish  that 
he  had  lived  in  a later  period  and  served  a more 
appreciative  government. 

From  White  Sulphur  I returned  to  my 
father’s  home,  brightened  now  by  three  brothers 
and  two  sisters,  all  of  whom  had  seen  so  little 
of  “Sister”  that  they  knew  nothing  of  her  short- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


83 


comings  and  thought  she  was  the  greatest  thing 
in  the  world. 

Then  lessons  began  in  earnest  and  stern 
duties  came  to  interrupt  childish  diversions. 
When  the  course  laid  out  for  me  at  home  was 
completed,  my  father  decided  to  take  me  to 
Lynchburg  Seminary.  It  was  a serious  epoch 
for  me,  as  I was  to  go  among  strangers  for  the 
first  time,  so  the  farewells  were  solemn. 

As  a parting  present,  “Uncle  Charles”  brought 
me  a nest  of  guinea  eggs,  a box  of  sweet  gum 
which  he  had  been  collecting  for  months,  a 
string  of  chinquapins  and  some  dried  haws,  say- 
ing as  he  gave  them  to  me : 

“Honey,  don’t  fergit  de  ole  man  en  bring  him 
sump’n,  en  remember  you’s  born  but  you  ain’t 
dead  yit.” 

Others  of  the  servants  came  with  blessings 
and  farewell  gifts.  Mary-Frances,  who  always 
received  more  presents  than  her  twin  sister  and 
was  noted  for  her  stinginess,  bade  me  a pathetic 
good-bye,  assuring  me  that  she  was  “gwine  to 
be  good  en  ’vide  her  light’ood  and  things  wid 
Arabella.”  As  I had  disapproved  of  her  selfish 
refusal  to  share  her  “light’ood”  with  her  sister 
she  thought  this  promise  of  generosity  would 
be  the  best  gift  she  could  bestow  upon  me  as  a 
parting  keepsake. 

After  tender  farewells  from  mother,  sisters, 


84  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


and  brothers  I started  off  with  my  father  on 
what  seemed  to  me  a long,  long  journey. 

At  Richmond  a man  in  uniform  boarded  the 
train.  I looked  at  him  with  admiration  as  he 
came  down  the  aisle.  He  was  tall  and  walked 
erectly  with  graceful  carriage  and  a command- 
ing air  not  dependent  upon  his  military  dress. 
He  stopped  and  spoke  to  my  father,  who  arose, 
greeted  him  cordially  and,  turning  back  the 
seat,  invited  him  to  join  us.  He  accepted  and 
my  father  introduced  “Colonel  Robert  E.  Lee.” 
The  Colonel  shook  hands  with  me  in  a gentle 
way  and  began  to  barter  for  one  of  my  long 
curls.  In  my  diffidence  I did  not  close  with  any 
of  his  offers,  though  I would  have  given  every 
curl  on  my  head  for  the  asking,  for  even  then, 
to  my  romantic  vision,  Colonel  Lee  was  a hero. 

He  said  that  he  had  just  returned  from  Har- 
per’s Ferry,  where  there  had  been  great  excite- 
ment. John  Brown  had  descended  upon  the 
town  and  taken  possession  of  the  United  States 
Arsenal.  Colonel  Lee,  home  on  furlough  from 
the  West,  had  been  sent  with  the  marines  from 
the  Washington  barracks  and  four  companies 
of  troops  from  Fortress  Monroe  to  dispossess 
them  and  restore  quiet  to  the  little  town  in  the 
Virginia  hills.  It  was  not  alone  Harper’s  Ferry 
that  had  been  terrorized;  the  entire  state  had 
been  thrown  into  a turmoil  of  excitement. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


85' 


To  a child  whose  infancy  had  shuddered  at 
the  story  of  the  Nat  Turner  insurrection  of 
1832,  the  John  Brown  raid  in  1859  was  a sub- 
ject of  horrible  fascination,  and  I listened  in- 
tently as  Colonel  Lee  talked  of  this  strange  old 
fanatic  and  his  followers. 

“What  do  you  think  would  be  the  effect  upon 
the  negro,  Mr.  Corbell,”  Colonel  Lee  asked  my 
father,  “if  we  should  be  compelled  to  hang  John 
Brown?” 

My  father  replied,  “Well,  Pve  thought  of  that, 
too,  Colonel,  and  I asked  my  foreman,  who  is 
a representative  of  his  race,  if  he  did  not  think 
we  ought  to  hang  old  John  Brown.  He  looked 
at  me  earnestly  for  a while  then,  shaking  his 
head  slowly,  said,  “I  knows,  Marse  Dae,  dat  po’ 
Marse  John  done  en  bruk  de  law,  killin’  all  dem 
mens;  but  den,  Marse  Dae,  even  ef  po’  Marse 
John  did  bre’k  de  law,  don’t  you  think,  suh,  dat 
hangin’  him  would  be  a li’l  abrupt f” 

Colonel  Lee  laughed  and  replied,  “I  think  that 
just  about  expresses  the  sentiment  not  only  of 
the  colored  people  but  of  many  others.”  They 
agreed  that  John  Brown  was  an  honest,  earnest, 
courageous  old  man  and  that  his  friends  ought 
to  put  him  where  he  would  be  cared  for. 

My  eyes  were  turned  steadily  toward  Colonel 
Lee  with  a large  measure  of  that  admiration 
he  won  from  observers  older  and  more  experi- 


86 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


enced  than  I.  Yet  I could  not  have  told  what 
manner  of  man  he  was,  except  that  he  was  im- 
pressive in  appearance  and  that  he  drew  people 
toward  him  with  a subtle  attraction  which  was 
indescribable  as  well  as  irresistible. 

The  story  of  John  Brown  was  graphically 
told  and  heard  with  absorbed  attention,  but  it 
is  not  likely  that  the  Virginia  planter  with  all 
his  knowledge  of  history  and  character,  nor  the 
great  soldier  with  his  military  training,  recog- 
nized signs  of  the  impending  storm  any  more 
than  did  the  wide-eyed  child  lost  in  breathless 
wonderment  over  the  thrilling  episode. 

At  the  next  station  the  Colonel  left  us  and  I 
went  on  into  the  hill  country. 


X 

THE  BREAKING  OF  THE  STORM 

I WAS  a student  at  Lynchburg  Seminary 
when  the  storm  that  had  begun  to  lower  at 
Harper’s  Ferry  broke  in  full  force.  To  a 
few  prescient  minds  I think  it  brought  no  shock 
of  surprise.  Some  had  watched  the  little  cloud 
on  the  horizon  till  it  had  overspread  the  zenith. 
But  most  of  us,  old  as  well  as  young,  had  felt 
secure  “in  the  land  where  we  lay  dreaming.” 

Virginia  held  longest  by  the  Union,  the  bonds 
of  which  had  clasped  the  States  together  until 
the  Old  Dominion  had  forgotten  that  political 
ties  are  not  eternal.  Since  the  brave  Thirteen 
had  banded  together  to  fight  for  liberty,  Vir- 
ginia had  clung  with  unswerving  tenacity  to  the 
central  idea  that  had  kept  the  States  together 
through  many  severe  tests  of  loyalty.  Forged 
in  the  fires  of  the  Bevolution,  the  chain  that 
bound  her  to  the  Union  of  States  had  grown 
stronger  with  the  years  and  with  the  blood  of 
many  battles.  The  Mother  of  Presidents  and 


87 


88 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


of  patriotic  Statesmen,  her  devotion  to  the  wel- 
fare of  the  nation  was  of  unusual  depth  and 
ardor.  Politicians  sought  to  drag  her  alle- 
giance from  the  flag  whose  stars  lit  the  path  of 
her  great  sons,  Washington,  Jefferson,  Madison, 
and  the  many  who  had  worthily  represented  her 
in  the  work  of  building  up  the  nation,  but  the 
people  stood  firmly  by  their  historic  and  heredi- 
tary faith.  There  was  but  one  thing  that  could 
shake  her  fidelity.  When  she  was  called  upon 
for  aid  in  a contest  against  her  sister  States 
loyalty  to  the  nation  gave  way  to  loyalty  to  the 
South  and  home  and  kindred,  and  Virginia 
joined  the  Confederacy. 

To  some  the  bells  which  rang  out  the  tidings 
of  the  rising  of  the  new  star  in  the  Southern 
flag  were  joy-bells  of  victory;  to  many  they 
tolled  the  death-knell  of  a long,  proud  era.  But 
the  new  banner  floated  gloriously  to  the  breeze, 
huzzas  rang  out  triumphantly  and  all  was  glow- 
ing to  the  vision  of  hope. 

The  fires  of  patriotism  burned  hotly  in  the 
heart  of  youth  and  there  were  Stars  and  Bars 
enough  in  Lynchburg  Seminary  to  light  a world 
of  new-born  nations  to  victory  and  set  up  in- 
vincible barriers  to  the  universe.  Some  weeks 
later  when  the  news  of  the  battle  of  Manassas 
came  surging  along  the  line,  we  felt  that  events 
had  justified  our  enthusiasm.  In  imagination 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


89 


we  beheld  our  flag  floating  over  a great  new 
country  that  should  rival  the  nations  of  the 
world  in  beauty  and  glory. 

We  saw  then  only  the  bonfires  of  joy  and 
heard  only  the  pagans  of  victory,  but  a few  days 
later,  when  my  friend,  Major  John  W.  Daniel, 
was  brought  to  his  home  in  Lynchburg  with  a 
wound  received  in  that  battle  which  we  had  cele- 
brated with  such  triumphant  delight,  I began 
to  feel  that  war  meant  something  more  than  the 
thrill  of  martial  music  and  the  shouts  of  victory. 
Major  Daniel  had  been  my  friend  from  child- 
hood, strong,  handsome  and  gallant,  and  when 
I saw  him  in  suffering  helplessness  I felt  for 
the  first  time  something  of  the  power  of  war  to 
strike  down  life  with  all  its  hopes  and  dreams 
and  ambitions.  He  was  soon  able  to  return  to 
the  field,  doing  brave  service  for  the  cause  un- 
til he  was  so  badly  wounded  in  the  battle  of  the 
Wilderness  that  he  was  forced  to  retire.  Even 
more  gratefully  does  Virginia  cherish  the  coura- 
geous work  he  has  since  done  in  the  United 
States  Senate,  and  lovingly  does  she  hold  him 
in  her  heart  now  that  his  brave  and  beautiful 
life  has  passed  into  the  great  Memorial  Hall  of 
her  proudest  history.  Through  all  the  years 
he  has  been  a loyal  friend  to  me  and  mine. 

The  passing  of  the  ordinance  of  secession  was 
the  signal  for  the  return  of  the  martial  sons  of 


90 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


Virginia.  Every  Federal  post  gave  them  np 
to  us,  from  Arlington,  where  Colonel  Robert  E. 
Lee  laid  down  his  allegiance  to  the  old  flag,  to 
the  Pacific,  where  my  Soldier  had  upheld  the 
integrity  of  his  country  against  hostile  Indians 
and  foreign  foes. 

In  July,  1861,  Captain  Pickett  resigned  from 
the  United  States  Army,  made  a perilous  jour- 
ney from  San  Juan,  passing  by  sea  around  to 
New  York,  going  thence  to  Canada  and  then 
southward,  barely  escaping  arrest  three  times. 
From  the  window  of  a railway  car  along  a Ken- 
tucky road  is  seen  an  old  home  where  he  spent 
a night  in  his  long  journey.  Government  officers 
called  there  in  search  of  him,  but  he  was  pro- 
tected by  a ruse  of  his  host  and  rode  on  the 
next  morning,  reaching  Richmond  September 
13,  1861.  He  at  once  enlisted  as  a private,  be- 
ing immediately  afterward  commissioned  as 
Captain  and  a few  days  later  promoted  to  a 
Colonelcy.  His  military  life  from  Richmond  to 
Appomattox  belongs  to  the  history  of  the  na- 
tion. 

By  this  time  everyday  life  in  Virginia  had 
become  invested  with  difficulties  even  for  those 
who  might  have  been  regarded  as  outside  the 
sphere  of  war.  Not  only  the  soldiers  in  the 
field  had  obstacles  to  encounter;  they  loomed  in 
the  pathway  of  the  school-girl. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


91 


My  home  being  within  the  Federal  lines,  1 
spent  a part  of  my  vacations  with  friends  in 
Richmond.  There  I used  to  see  General  Rob- 
ert E.  Lee  riding  along  the  street  in  the  grace- 
ful way  that  years  before  had  brought  people 
to  their  windows  to  see  “the  handsomest  man 
in  the  United  States  Army”  ride  down  Pennsyl- 
vania Avenue  in  Washington.  The  eyes  of 
Richmond  followed  him  with  equal  admiration 
in  these  war  days  and  I used  to  recall  my  first 
meeting  with  him  when  the  war  was  a dim 
prophecy.  In  a short  time  he  was  sent  away 
to  Western  Virginia,  where  he  fought  a valiant 
but  losing  battle  against  mountains,  rain,  star- 
vation, and  Southern  editors  who  were  gifted 
with  a military  genius  never  known  to  the 
leaders  of  armies. 

“I  see  that  we  have  made  a great  mistake,” 
the  General  lamented.  “We  ought  to  have  put 
the  editors  in  the  field  and  set  the  Generals  to 
managing  the  newspapers.” 

The  streets  of  Richmond  knew  him  no  more 
until  he  returned  in  the  late  autumn  with  no 
new  laurels  on  his  brow  but  with  a strength 
of  soul  that  could  abide  the  appointed  time. 

In  our  study  halls  we  had  fancied  that  we 
knew  something  of  war.  We  had  cheered  our 
flag,  trembled  for  our  soldiers  at  the  front  even 
while  we  prophetically  gloried  in  their  future 


92 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


triumph,  and  celebrated  with  great  enthusiasm 
the  battle  of  Manassas.  We  had  made  sacrifices 
for  our  country,  every  girl  of  us  having  en- 
trusted her  jewelry  to  the  principal  of  the 
school  to  be  sold  for  the  benefit  of  our  cause. 
She  had  accepted  the  trust,  saying  that  we  might 
redeem  our  possessions  if  we  wished.  Only 
one  piece  was  ever  reclaimed,  a ring  given  to 
one  of  the  girls  by  her  lover.  When  he  was 
killed  in  battle  she  took  back  the  ring,  paying 
in  money  for  her  treasure.  Now  I was  to  learn 
something  of  what  war  meant. 


XI 

THE  “YIKGTNIA” 

ON  a morning  that  was  like  ideal  May,  the 
8th  of  March,  1862,  I sat  on  my  horse  by 
the  river  hank  at  Blinkhorn,  opposite 
Newport  News.  My  uncle,  Colonel  J.  J.  Phil- 
lips, was  stationed  there,  and  I had  come  to  the 
camp  and  was  one  of  the  hundreds  gathered  on 
the  bank  of  the  Nansemond  River  at  that  point, 
all  eyes  turned  with  eager  interest  toward 
Hampton  Roads,  where  lay  our  new  battleship, 
the  Virginia. 

Like  a phoenix,  she  had  arisen  from  the 
wreck  of  the  old  frigate  Merrimac.  Grim,  sol- 
emn, weird,  builded  low  upon  the  water,  she 
was  not  boat  nor  ram  nor  submarine,  nor  any- 
thing else  hitherto  known  to  the  waves.  Newly 
clad  in  her  robe  of  iron,  she  was  a veiled  mys- 
tery, a forlorn  hope,  a theory,  an  armed  engine, 
a steam  battery  protected  by  armor,  an  experi- 
ment destined  to  change  the  course  of  naval 
warfare.  Being  the  first  ship  built  in  the  Old 

93 


94 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


Dominion,  she  was  named  for  her  State,  Vir- 
ginia. Commanded  by  Captain  Buchanan  and 
manned  by  a crew  composed  largely  of  lands- 
men who  had  volunteered  from  the  Army,  she 
had  waited  in  Hampton  Roads  for  the  dawning 
of  her  day. 

Through  my  field-glass  I watched  the  Vir- 
ginia gliding  like  a great  white  bird  hovering 
between  the  pulsing,  scintillant  blue  of  the 
heavens  above  and  the  waters  beneath.  Ac- 
companied by  the  gunboats  Raleigh  and  Beau- 
fort, she  passed  along  amid  the  cheers  of  the 
enthusiastic  onlookers  thronging  both  banks  and 
of  the  troops  at  the  batteries  around  the  harbor. 
An  awesome  feeling  took  possession  of  me, 
holding  me  silent  until  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
crowd  thrilled  me  and  I waved  my  handker- 
chief in  messages  of  Godspeed  to  the  brave  new 
craft. 

Slowly  she  rounded  Craney  Island,  lying  like 
a blue-gray  cloud  over  the  water,  her  batteries 
turned  toward  the  Norfolk  shore.  The  troops 
waved  their  caps  and  sent  up  lusty  cheers  for 
the  strange  craft  that  looked,  as  some  one  after- 
ward said,  “like  a huge  terrapin  with  a large 
round  chimney  about  the  middle  of  its  back.” 
Having  passed  the  island,  she  turned  into  the 
south  channel  and  slowly  moved  on  toward  New- 
port News  until,  coming  within  firing  range  of 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


95 


the  United  States  frigates  Congress  and  Cum- 
berland, she  was  greeted  with  broadsides  from 
both.  A flash  of  fire,  pale  against  the  white 
day,  a puff  of  smoke,  widening,  drifting,  wreath- 
ing around  the  mouth  of  the  gun  and  floating- 
off  into  space,  a deep  roar  of  thunder  showed 
us  that  our  Virginia  was  bearing  well  her  brave 
old  name. 

The  enthusiasm  which  had  greeted  her  ap- 
pearance was  as  nothing  compared  with  the  ex- 
citement that  thrilled  us  now.  Yells  of  encour- 
agement and  defiance  rent  the  air.  Handker- 
chiefs fluttered ; hats  were  thrown  aloft.  Some 
of  the  men  danced;  others  turned  somersaults 
of  enthusiasm.  One  soldier  rushed  to  Colonel 
Phillips  shouting,  “Say,  Colonel,  say;  can’t  we 
do  something?  Can’t  we  help?  For  God’s 
sake,  let  us  do  something  to  help  them !” 

Fortunately  there  was  no  bridge  from  the 
shore  to  the  scene  of  action.  Otherwise  every 
man,  woman  and  child  among  that  seething 
crowd  might  have  rushed  into  the  fight,  to  the 
embarrassment  of  the  plucky  little  Virginia. 
We  could  do  our  part  only  by  going  into  parox- 
ysms of  patriotism,  in  which  we  all  excelled. 

The  Virginia  went  on  up  the  channel,  turned 
and,  coming  back,  ran  full  against  the  Cumber- 
land, penetrating  her  side  with  the  sharp  prow 
of  the  Confederate  ironclad.  The  frigate 


96 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


reeled,  shuddered,  and  began  slowly  to  settle, 
her  guns  roaring  from  her  deck.  The  Congress 
came  to  her  assistance,  but  the  shots  which 
rained  from  the  two  frigates  fell  harmlessly 
from  the  slanting  sides  of  the  Virginia. 

With  fascinated  eyes  I watched  the  Cumber- 
land tossing  upon  the  waves,  gradually  sinking, 
firing  another  volley  as  her  bow  went  down, 
then  disappearing  under  the  water,  the  flag  that 
floated  from  her  masthead  still  fluttering  above 
the  sea. 

For  days  we  had  seen  that  frigate  with  her 
mate,  the  Congress,  threatening  us,  a blot  upon 
our  waters,  a monster,  a thing  of  evil,  waiting 
for  the  moment  of  fate.  But  it  was  pitiful  to 
watch  her  go  down,  and  I think  every  heart 
there  felt  a pride  in  that  pennant  waving  de- 
fiantly above  the  water,  even  while  we  cheered 
our  victorious  Virginia.  She  went  on,  turned 
and  came  back  to  attack  the  Congress  which,  in 
trying  to  escape,  ran  aground.  She  was  soon 
ablaze,  banners  of  flame  flapping  out  from  her 
rigging.  In  an  hour  her  flag  fell. 

We  were  told  afterward  that  in  one  of  the 
ships  which  we  could  dimly  descry  in  the  dis- 
tance, an  old  man  waited  for  the  battle  and  for 
tidings  of  his  son,  commander  of  the  Congress. 
When  they  told  him  that  the  flag  was  down  he 
said  sadly,  “Then  Joe  is  dead!”  He  knew  by 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


97 


that  signal  that  his  son  “Joe,”  Captain  Joseph 
B.  Smith,  had  fallen. 

The  Raleigh  and  Beaufort  drew  up  beside 
the  flaming  Congress,  under  a heavy  fire  from 
the  Federal  batteries  on  the  Newport  News 
shore  which  not  only  did  execution  upon  the 
crews  of  the  Confederate  gunboats,  but  proved 
fatal  to  some  of  the  prisoners  from  the  burn- 
ing frigate.  The  Virginia’s  launch  rowed  to- 
ward the  Congress  and  was  struck  by  a volley 
from  the  Federal  battery. 

Beyond  the  Congress  the  Minnesota  lay 
aground.  Before  the  surrender  of  the  Congress 
the  Patrick  Henry,  Thomas  Jefferson  and 
Teaser,  the  James  River  squadron,  passed  the 
Federal  batteries,  the  Patrick  Henry  was  struck 
through  the  boiler  and  was  towed  out  of  action 
by  the  Thomas  Jefferson,  returning  after  re- 
pairs and  running  up  close  to  the  grounded 
Minnesota,  being  light  and  able  to  come  nearer 
than  the  heavier  ironclad.  Till  night  fell  we 
watched  the  gunboats  raining  shot  upon  the 
Minnesota,  the  Virginia,  from  her  greater  dis- 
tance, occasionally  firing  ponderously  upon  the 
grounded  frigate.  When  darkness  prevented 
correct  aim  the  Virginia  and  her  sturdy  little 
assistants  retired,  slowly  moving  to  Sewell’s 
Point.  We  returned  to  our  homes,  awed  by  the 
grandeur  of  the  scene,  sorrowful  for  the  lost 


98 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


lives,  but  triumphant  in  the  victory  won  by  our 
brave  little  craft. 

Those  who  watched  through  the  hours  of 
darkness  beheld  a brilliant  tire-scene  displayed 
against  the  velvety  night.  Steadily  the  Con- 
gress had  flamed  upward,  paling  the  stars  in 
its  red  glow.  At  midnight  banners  of  flame, 
showers  of  stars,  fiery  serpents  writhing  up- 
ward in  sinuous  pathways  through  the  dense 
columns  of  smoke,  marked  the  end. 

That  night  a new-comer  arrived  and  next 
morning  was  lying  behind  the  grounded  Minne- 
sota— a queer  object,  afterward  described  as 
“a  tin  can  on  a shingle.”  It  was  Erickson’s 
little  Monitor,  commanded  by  Captain  Worden 
and  manned  by  a volunteer  crew,  for  no  one 
was  ordered  for  service  on  the  odd  little  craft 
with  its  revolving  turret.  The  position  was 
risky  and  no  officer  wanted  to  reflect  later 
that  he  had  sent  men  to  death  on  a wild  ex- 
periment. 

Those  who  could  get  a clear  view  of  the 
stranger  thought  that  she  was  a raft  sent  to 
save  the  crew  of  the  Minnesota,  but  she  steamed 
up  toward  the  Virginia  with  a war-like  expres- 
sion which  left  no  doubt  as  to  her  real  character. 
From  tidings  sent  from  New  York  we  had  ex- 
pected the  new  invention  down  in  our  waters, 
but  our  imagination  had  not  wound  itself 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


99 


around  anything  so  funny  looking  and  we  did 
not  recognize  her  until  she  revealed  herself. 

I was  early  at  my  post,  eager  to  see  the  end 
of  the  fray.  My  uncle  had  his  boat  ready  to 
put  out  to  the  scene  of  action. 

“Oh,  uncle,  may  I go?”  I cried,  running  after 
him. 

“No,  no!”  he  shouted.  “Go  back!” 

He  stepped  into  the  boat  and  pulled  off  with- 
out looking  behind  and  did  not  see  that  I fol- 
lowed and  took  a seat  in  the  boat,  with  sketch- 
book and  pencil,  prepared  to  take  battle  views 
at  first  hand.  Perhaps  an  artist  of  to-day  might 
regard  my  sketch-book  with  some  degree  of 
scorn,  constructed  as  it  was  of  wall  paper, 
turned  plain  side  out,  cut  into  leaves  of  con- 
venient size,  and  bound  together,  the  handiwork 
of  my  ingenious  grandmother.  It  was  the  best 
the  Confederacy  could  afford  just  then  and  per- 
haps it  served  the  purpose  as  well  as  a more 
artistic  outfit  might  have  done.  I shall  never 
forget  the  look  of  horrified  amazement  that 
overspread  my  uncle’s  face  as  he  chanced  to 
look  backward. 

“You  little  dare-devil,  you!”  he  called  out, 
“I’ve  a good  mind  to  drown  you!” 

The  absurdity  of  the  situation  flashed  upon 
him  and  his  shout  of  laughter  rang  over  the 
water.  We  were  too  far  out  to  admit  of  turn- 


100  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


ing  back  to  put  me  ashore  and  there  was  noth- 
ing he  could  do  but  endure  my  company. 

“You  needn’t  think  I am  going  to  try  to  keep 
you  out  of  danger,  you  disobedient,  incorrigible 
little  minx,”  he  said  indignantly.  “It  would 
serve  you  right  if  you  were  shot.” 

I was  not  thinking  of  danger.  It  was  my 
first  chance  at  a sea-fight  and  I was  not  going 
to  miss  it. 

Thus  I watched  the  first  battle  of  iron-clad 
warships.  Apparently  recognizing  the  fact  that 
they  had  in  a moment  become  useless  lumber, 
the  old-time  wooden  structures  drew  aside  and 
observed  the  novel  contest.  The  two  little 
giants  were  almost  touching  and  broadside  after 
broadside  poured  into  each  other.  My  uncle 
was  absorbed  in  watching  the  scene. 

“Let  me  see ! Let  me  see !”  I cried  all  aquiver 
with  excitement. 

“I  will  not  let  you  see,  you  miserable  little 
wretch !”  he  replied. 

Then  relenting,  he  gave  me  the  field-glass. 
“Well,  here;  look!  Be  careful  or  you  will  lose 
your  balance  and  fall  overboard,  though  I 
reckon  it  would  be  a good  thing  if  you  did. 
Teach  you  better  than  to  put  yourself  where 
you  have  no  business.” 

His  sense  of  humor,  as  usual,  saved  the  situ- 
ation, and  he  laughed  again.  I think  there  was 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  101 


never  a time  since  I routed  him  out  at  midnight 
to  take  a neck-breaking  ride  in  a hail-storm 
that  I was  not  an  amusing,  as  well  as  a terrify- 
ing conundrum  to  my  unfortunate  uncle.  He 
good-naturedly  shared  his  glass  with  disobedi- 
ent little  me  and  I watched  the  contest. 

The  storm  that  rained  upon  the  Virginia  was 
of  solid  shot  and  shell,  while  it  had  been  im- 
possible to  provide  the  Confederate  ram  with 
anything  but  shell.  The  armor  of  the  Monitor 
was  thicker  than  that  of  her  antagonist  but  the 
inclination  of  the  sides  of  the  Virginia,  causing 
the  shot  to  glance  harmlessly,  offset  that  ad- 
vantage. The  Virginia  suddenly  ran  aground 
and  the  Monitor  was  quick  to  avail  herself  of 
the  mishap,  but  before  we  were  certain  of  the 
peril  of  our  champion  she  was  off  and  making 
an  effort  to  run  down  the  Monitor.  The  bow 
of  the  Virginia  was  directly  against  her  antag- 
onist and  we  saw  the  Federal  ship  careen  dan- 
gerously. When  they  separated  a shell  from 
our  ironclad  struck  the  pilot-house  of  the  Moni- 
tor. We  afterward  learned  that  her  com- 
mander, Lieutenant  Worden,  was  disabled. 

The  Minnesota  was  helpless  and  as  the  Vir- 
ginia turned  toward  her  we  expected  that  she 
would  he  sunk.  But,  probably  to  the  delight 
of  those  on  board  the  frigate  as  well  as  to  the 
infinite  dismay  of  us  who  looked  on,  our  little 


102  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


steamer  went  on  her  way  toward  Sewell’s  Point 
and  then  to  the  Navy  Yard.  Onr  disappoint- 
ment was  very  great  and  as  we  were  rowing 
home  my  uncle  said  reflectively: 

“By  George,  it  looks  as  if  the  Lord  was  on 
the  side  of  those  damned  Yankees.” 

It  was  the  first  time  I had  ever  heard  bim 
admit  the  possibility  that  Providence  could  be 
on  the  wrong  side  of  anything. 

We  heard  later  that,  so  certain  seemed  the 
destruction  of  the  Minnesota,  her  captain 
was  making  preparations  to  fire  and  abandon 
her  when,  to  his  surprise,  the  Merrimac,  or  Vir- 
ginia, as  we  renamed  her,  turned  homeward. 

Our  captain  afterward  explained  that  he 
thought  his  last  shot  had  disabled  the  Monitor 
and  he  dared  not  stay  any  longer  in  those  waters 
because  the  Virginia  had  so  heavy  a draught 
that  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  cross  the  bar 
after  ebb-tide. 


XII 

RICHMOND  AFTER  SEVEN  PINES 

IN  the  Battle  of  Seven  Pines,  May  31  and 
June  1,  1862,  Pickett’s  Brigade  played  a 
most  important  and  gallant  part,  an  account 
of  which  may  be  seen  in  General  Joseph  E. 
Johnston’s  report  and  in  General  Pickett’s  own 
report  as  given  in  “Pickett  and  His  Men.” 

While  the  battle  yet  raged  darkness  came 
on  to  force  a truce.  General  Johnston  ordered 
his  troops  to  sleep  on  their  lines  to  be  ready 
for  the  morning.  Shortly  after  seven  he  was 
slightly  wounded  by  a musket  shot.  A little 
later  he  remarked  to  one  of  his  Colonels  who 
dodged  a shell : 

“There  is  no  use  in  dodging  like  that,  Colonel. 
When  you  hear  the  things  they  have  passed.” 

At  that  moment  a shell  exploded,  striking  him 
in  the  breast.  He  fell  unconscious  into  the 
arms  of  Drewry  L.  Armistead,  one  of  his  cou- 
riers. On  regaining  consciousness  he  missed  his 
sword  and  pistols,  and  said : 

103 


104  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


“My  father  wore  that  sword  in  the  Revolu- 
tionary War  and  I would  not  lose  it  for  ten 
thousand  dollars.  The  pistols  Colonel  Colt,  the 
inventor,  gave  me.” 

Both  sword  and  pistols  were  recovered  and 
General  Johnston,  the  natural  magnet  for  bul- 
lets, an  officer  of  the  highest  soldierly  qualities, 
of  military  skill  and  sagacity  equalled  by  few 
and  surpassed  by  none,  was  carried  off  the  field 
severely  wounded.  General  Robert  E.  Lee  was 
appointed  to  the  command  of  the  Army  of 
Northern  Virginia,  to  become  the  idol  of  his 
people  and  one  of  the  greatest  military  leaders 
of  the  world;  greater  than  will  ever  be  known, 
because  of  the  restrictions  laid  upon  his  power. 
Though  he  was  the  General  in  command  he  was 
under  the  direction  of  the  War  Department, 
which  exercised  its  authority  to  the  utmost. 
Perhaps  our  Confederacy  might  have  been 
longer  lived  if  Lee  had  adopted  the  policy  of 
Stonewall  Jackson  who,  when  ordered  to  recall 
General  Loring  from  Romney,  obeyed  like  a 
soldier  and  promptly  sent  in  his  resignation 
like  a mere  human. 

If  I could  bring  before  you  the  picture  of 
the  Richmond  I saw  after  the  battle  of  Seven 
Pines  you  would  say  that  it  was  the  most  power- 
ful peace  argument  ever  penned.  But  no  words 
could  give  you  the  faintest  shadow  of  the  Rich- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  105 


mond  of  those  days  of  anguish.  Could  Dante 
have  looked  upon  our  Capital  in  that  opening 
June  he  would  have  needed  no  Virgil  to  unlock 
for  him  the  gates  of  Inferno,  no  Beatrice  to 
lead  him  through  the  midnight  corridors  of  a 
lost  world  to  the  torture  chamber  of  condemned 
souls.  He  would  have  turned  his  gaze  upon  our 
streets,  dipped  his  pen  in  his  heart’s  blood  and 
written,  and  mankind  would  have  shuddered 
through  all  the  ages  to  come. 

Richmond  was  shaking  with  the  thunders  of 
the  battle  and  the  death-sounds  thrilled  through 
our  agonized  souls.  The  blood  of  the  field  was 
running  in  rivers  of  red  through  the  hearts 
of  her  people.  For  days  the  dead-wagons  and 
ambulances  wended  their  tragic  way  from  the 
battlefield  to  the  Capital  City  and  every  turn 
of  their  crunching  wheels  rolled  over  our 
crushed  and  bleeding  hearts.  The  wretched 
loads  of  wounded  were  emptied  before  the  doors 
of  the  improvised  hospitals  until  they  over- 
flowed with  maimed  humanity  and  all  hearts 
and  hands  were  full  of  grief  for  the  dead  and 
work  for  the  wounded. 

There  was  not  a home  in  the  city  that  held 
not  some  ghastly  offering  from  the  battlefield. 
Every  possible  space  was  converted  into  a tem- 
porary hospital  and  all  was  done  that  unwear- 
ied nursing  and  gentle  care  could  effect,  for 


106  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


the  roughest  in  the  ranks  as  tenderly  as  for 
those  who  wore  the  stars.  Women,  girls,  and 
children  stood  before  the  doors  with  wine  and 
food  for  the  wounded  as  they  passed.  It  was 
not  unusual  to  see  half  a dozen  funeral  proces- 
sions at  the  same  time  on  their  way  to  the  City 
of  the  Dead. 

The  Capitol  square  was  filled  with  officers, 
privates  and  citizens,  seeking  information  of 
the  battle.  From  all  the  Southland  poured 
in  letters  from  friends  and  relatives,  with 
the  sacred  charge  to  care  for  their  loved 
ones.  From  all  quarters  of  the  Confederacy 
wives  followed  their  husbands,  mothers  their 
sons. 

“Come,  Lassie,  here  is  a telegram  from  Mrs. 

B ,”  said  my  hostess.  “Come,  dear,  and  go 

with  me  to  the  train  to  meet  her.  How  I dread 
it,  poor,  dear  lady !” 

There  was  a sublime  faith  in  the  motherly 
face  that  met  us  in  the  station — a faith  that 
lifted  up  our  hearts  to  the  heights  of  Divinity. 
There  was  no  question,  no  fear,  in  the  serene, 
loving  eyes.  “I’ve  come  to  see  my  boy;  he 
was  with  General  Johnston,”  she  said. 

We  drove  back  through  a mourning  Rich- 
mond, a strange,  foreign  Richmond  that  the 
mother  did  not  know.  From  the  doors  of  the 
houses  hung  streamers  of  black.  Ambulances 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  107 


filled  with  wounded  passed  us,  their  torturing 
road  marked  by  the  trail  of  blood  that  oozed, 
drop  by  drop,  from  human  veins. 

Wagons  filled  with  dead  rolled  by,  the  stif- 
fened bodies  piled  one  upon  another  in  ghastly 
heaps,  the  rigid  feet  projecting  from  the  ends 
of  the  vehicles.  It  was  the  most  appalling 
sight  that  ever  greeted  human  eyes,  but  it  was 
the  only  way  to  save  our  fallen  soldiers  from 
the  desecration  of  birds  of  prey.  All  the 
vehicles  of  every  description  were  utilized,  the 
less  severely  wounded  walking,  their  wounds 
bound  in  bloody  rags.  They  formed  a long 
procession,  nearly  five  thousand,  young  boys, 
middle-aged  and  old  men,  from  privates  to  high 
officers,  passing  on  to  the  homes  of  Richmond 
where  they  would  find  tender  care.  From  some 
of  the  open  windows  came  shrieks  of  pain  from 
those  whose  courage  had  been  overcome  by 
mortal  agony.  Down  the  streets  new  regiments 
were  marching  to  the  front  to  fill,  in  time,  other 
dead-wagons  and  ambulances. 

Sometimes  the  Richmond  of  those  days  comes 
back  to  me  now  and  I shudder  anew  with  terror. 

Reaching  the  beautiful  home  of  our  friend 
and  hostess,  we  hurried  our  beloved  charge,  this 
sweet  mother  of  a soldier,  through  corridors 
where  closed  doors  guarded  scenes  which  could 
be  but  dimly  imagined.  Up  the  stairway  and 


108  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


along  the  hall  to  a small  room  she  followed  our 
friend,  who  sent  me  down  to  order  up  a waiter 
of  refreshments.  On  my  return  she  came  out 
to  meet  me. 

“She  does  not  know,  Lassie;  ah,  who  will 
tell  her  ? Heaven  help  her ! Heaven  help  her !” 

Later  I saw  her  go  with  firm  step,  erect  form, 
and  faith-redeemed  face,  and  stop  silently  as  if 
in  prayer  at  a closed  door.  Some  one  had  told 
her.  The  door  opened  and  she  passed  through. 
Then  it  gently  shut,  leaving  her  alone  with  her 
dead. 


XIII 


MY  WOUNDED  SOLDIER 

FOE.  months  “On  to  Eichmond”  had  been 
the  war-cry  of  the  Federals,  and  the 
battle  of  Gaines’s  Mill,  June  27,  1862, 
was  the  turning  point  of  the  seven  days’  battles 
around  our  Capital.  No  event  of  the  memo- 
rable campaign  which  had  followed  that  slogan 
was  more  important  in  its  results  than  this  des- 
perate conflict. 

McClellan  in  his  retreat  had  burned  and  de- 
stroyed everything  that  could  be  carried  away 
until  he  reached  Watts’s  Farm,  known  also  by 
the  names  of  Gaines’s  Mill  and  Cold  Harbor, 
and  there  was  fought  the  greatest  battle  of  the 
war,  up  to  that  time.  The  great  stage  painter, 
Nature,  had  never  arranged  a more  picturesque 
scene  for  a battle  than  that  which  was  set  for 
Gaines’s  Mill,  one  of  the  most  awful  contests 
of  the  war.  It  was  an  undulating  plain  grace- 
fully rising  into  gentle  swells,  crowned  by  a 
dense  growth  of  trees.  It  terminated  in  a tall 

109 


110  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


cliff,  a great  rounded  mass  of  rock  which  had 
been  hurled  from  its  native  bed  so  many  cen- 
turies ago  as  to  be  now  covered  with  a large 
forest.  Directly  in  front  of  the  cliff,  separated 
by  a deep  gorge,  was  a low  level  field  partly 
covered  by  a heavy  crop  of  oats  which,  together 
with  a natural  growth  of  broom-sedge,  afforded 
concealment  to  McClellan’s  sharpshooters  and 
lines  of  skirmishers.  The  cliff  was  defended 
by  three  tiers  of  field  artillery  and  a heavy  in- 
fantry support. 

Pickett’s  Brigade  formed  in  line  of  battle 
under  the  brow  of  the  hill,  and  my  Soldier,  lead- 
ing and  cheering  on  his  men  in  ascending  the 
cliff,  was  shot  from  his  horse.  His  shoulder 
was  pierced  by  a minie  ball  and  his  medical 
director  wanted  to  take  him  off  the  field,  saying 
the  ball  must  be  removed  at  once. 

“My  men  need  me,”  replied  my  Soldier. 
“Take  the  bullet  out  here  and  fix  me  up  quick, 
doctor,  I must  go  back — see,  they  need  me.” 

The  surgeon  extracted  the  ball  and  my  Soldier 
continued  to  give  orders  until,  weak  from  pain 
and  loss  of  blood,  he  was  carried  from  the  field. 
For  some  weeks  he  was  on  furlough  at  his 
home  in  Richmond  and  in  July  I was  per- 
mitted to  make  my  first  call.  Here  I met  for 
the  second  time  Jefferson  Davis,  now  President 
of  the  Confederacy.  I had  just  taken  my  seat 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  111 


by  my  wounded  Soldier  wlien  the  President  was 
announced  and,  to  my  inexpressible  vexation,  I 
saw  the  precious  minutes  slip  away  while  he 
occupied  my  chair  and  I sat  in  a corner  with 
Mrs.  Burwell,  my  Soldier’s  only  sister. 

In  spite  of  my  green  glasses  I could  not  help 
forming  a mental  picture  of  the  man  who  had 
been  chosen  as  our  political  head.  He  was  tall 
and  extremely  slender,  but  of  indescribable  dig- 
nity and  grace.  He  was  a type  of  the  Old 
South,  cultivated,  refined,  a brilliant  conversa- 
tionist. His  eyes  were  clear  and  of  a blue-gray 
color.  He  had  a high  forehead,  straight  nose, 
thin,  compressed  lips,  pointed  chin,  prominent 
cheek  bones,  and  deep  lines  around  his  mouth. 
His  face  was  thin,  features  long  and  sharp,  ex- 
pression intense.  There  was  no  pomp  in  his 
movements,  neither  was  there  anything  uncer- 
tain. His  walk  was  wonderful;  just  what  a 
President’s  walk  ought  to  be  but  seldom  is. 
When  he  rode,  the  beautiful  unaffected  harmony 
and  grace  of  every  motion  were  fascinating. 

He  pressed  my  Soldier’s  left  hand,  laying  it 
gently  down  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  to  avoid 
jarring  him. 

“How  soon  will  you  be  able  to  go  back?”  he 
asked.  “We  need  you  in  the  field.” 

“I  should  like  to  go  to-morrow,”  was  the 
reply. 


112  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


The  President  shook  his  head,  and  entered 
upon  a brief  account  of  the  fighting  after  the 
battle  of  Gaines’s  Mill,  praising  my  Soldier’s 
brother,  Major  Charles  Pickett,  who  had  been 
wounded  at  Frazier’s  Farm,  carrying  the  flag 
on  foot  after  his  horse  had  been  shot  from  under 
him.  I saw  the  President’s  eyes  flash  as  he 
said: 

“I  am  too  much  of  a soldier  to  keep  out  of 
it  in  this  way,  I want  to  be  in  the  fray.  I would 
much  have  preferred  fighting  in  the  field  to 
warring  in  the  council  chamber.  I had  gone 
out  to  consult  with  the  Generals  when  the 
artillery  duel  between  Jackson  and  Franklin  be- 
gan. I barely  missed  being  accidentally  shot 
and  was  carried  off  by  force.” 

Then  they  talked  of  the  time  when  they  fought 
in  Mexico. 

On  my  next  visit  to  my  Soldier  I met  Stone- 
wall Jackson,  whom  I had  seen  once  in  my  child- 
hood when  I went  with  my  grandmother  to 
visit  my  uncle,  Colonel  J.  J.  Phillips,  who  was 
under  him  as  a cadet  at  the  Virginia  Military 
Institute  and  was  afterward  associated  with 
him  as  a professor  in  the  same  institution. 
Later  I had  heard  my  Soldier  talk  of  him  as  the 
man  of  the  war ; the  greatest  military  character 
developed  in  that  fiery  time.  Even  thus  early 
the  world  began  to  know  him  for  what  he  was. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  113 


He  came  to  see  my  Soldier  and  asked  after  kis 
welfare. 

General  Jackson  talked  of  Gaines’s  Mill  and 
said  that  General  Whiting,  of  liis  command,  had 
lost  his  way  and,  not  knowing  where  to  find 
his  commander,  had  reported  to  General  Long- 
street,  who  put  his  brigade  a little  in  the  rear 
of  Pickett’s  men,  so  that  the  two  brigades  to- 
gether made  the  assault  which  broke  the  enemy’s 
lines.  My  Soldier,  who  always  deplored  the  loss 
of  life,  expressed  his  sorrow  over  the  death  of 
certain  gallant  officers  and  so  many  soldiers. 
Stonewall  replied,  “General  Pickett,  we  are 
fighting  to  save  the  country,  not  the  army.  I 
fight  to  win,  no  matter  how  many  are  killed.” 

While  they  were  talking  mint  juleps  were 
brought  in,  which  Jackson  declined,  saying,  “I 
never  touch  strong  drink.  I like  it  too  well  to 
fool  with  it,  and  no  man’s  strength  is  strong 
enough  to  enable  him  to  touch  the  stuff  with 
impunity.” 

Julie,  politely  curtseying,  came  to  the  defense 
of  her  juleps : 

“ ’Scuse  me,  Marse  Gen’ul  Jackson,  but  dese 
yer  drams  ain’t  got  no  impunities  in  ’em,  suh. 
Nor,  suh.  Braxton  done  en  mek  ’em  out’n  we- 
al? s ve’y  best  old  London  Dock  brandy  out’n 
one  o’  we-all’s  cobweb  bottles.” 

Though  my  Soldier’s  wound  was  serious  and 


114  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


he  was  suffering  intensely,  General  Jackson  did 
not  express  sympathy.  He  only  deplored  his 
absence  from  his  command  in  time  of  need.  My 
Soldier  said  afterward,  “I  believe  that  General 
Jackson  classes  all  who  are  weak  or  starving 
as  lacking  in  patriotism,  and  maybe  he  thinks 
I am  unpatriotic  to  have  been  wounded.” 

Perhaps  no  one  but  Stonewall  Jackson  could 
have  lived  up  to  the  stern  Puritanism  which 
made  him  so  indifferent  to  external  things — al- 
ways more  rigidly  uncompromising  for  himself 
than  for  others.  The  same  sturdy  determina- 
tion which  had  led  the  untrained  boy  years 
before  to  seek  and  obtain  an  appointment  to 
West  Point  in  the  face  of  a multitude  of  dis- 
couragements was  shown  in  Stonewall’s  famous 
requisition,  “Send  me  twenty  thousand  men  and 
no  orders.”  The  spirit  which  held  Lieutenant 
Jackson  to  his  guns  in  Mexico  after  all  his  men 
had  been  killed  or  driven  away,  and  had  won 
for  him  two  promotions  in  one  day,  was  the 
same  spirit  in  which,  having  received  an  order 
that  upset  his  well-matured  plans,  he  promptly 
obeyed  and  as  promptly  sent  in  his  resignation. 
The  South  had  then  learned  his  worth  and  her 
protest  led  him  to  withdraw  his  resignation, 
but  he  was  never  again  hampered  by  instruc- 
tions from  the  War  Department. 

It  was  said  in  the  army  that  General  Jackson 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  115 


was  afraid  of  nothing  but  his  own  soldiers. 
Their  expressions  of  devotion  alarmed  him. 
Riding  his  chestnut  sorrel,  his  tall,  powerful 
form  bent  forward,  his  long,  solemn  face,  with 
high  cheek  bones  half  lost  in  heavy  reddish- 
brown  beard,  his  gray  eyes  cast  downward, 
when  he  unexpectedly  came  upon  his  men  the 
first  cheer  would  cause  him  to  straighten  back, 
hold  his  shoulders  erect,  doff  the  old  fatigue 
cap  that  concealed  his  receding  forehead,  spur 
up  his  horse  and  dash  off  at  full  speed,  followed 
by  ringing  shouts  until  he  was  lost  to  view. 

Soon  after  this  meeting  with  our  “Stonewall” 
I returned  to  school,  and  in  October  my  Soldier 
reported  for  duty,  his  empty  sleeve  dangling, 
for  it  was  two  months  before  he  was  able  to 
draw  it  over  his  wounded  arm. 

Sheltered  by  academic  walls,  absorbed  in  our 
budding  ambitions,  we  were  yet  shaken  by  the 
thunders  of  Antietam  and  thrilled  with  tri- 
umphant, though  awesome,  joy  by  the  lightnings 
of  Fredericksburg  that  seemed  to  flash  a fiery 
road  to  the  goal  of  our  dreams. 

Then  came  Chancellorsville  with  its  thrill  of 
triumph,  followed  by  the  knowledge  of  the  im- 
measurable cost  of  the  victory. 

In  the  Executive  Mansion  I helped  Lizzie 
Letcher,  the  daughter  of  the  Governor,  and  Miss 
Missouri  Godwin,  now  the  widow  of  General 


116  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


Ordway,  pin  tuberoses  tied  with  crepe  on  the 
lapels  of  those  who  with  sad  hearts  followed 
their  honored  leader  for  the  last  time.  At  the 
grave  each  soldier  took  off  his  flower  and  laid  it 
on  the  sacred  mound. 

The  question  asked  in  ’61,  “Who  is  this  T.  J. 
Jackson?”  had  been  answered  from  many  a 
battlefield.  When  the  shot  that  struck  him 
down  sent  its  mournful  message  around  the 
world  the  fullest  response  to  that  query  came 
from  the  mourning  hearts  of  friend  and  foe 
alike.  Beyond  the  sea  he  was  recorded  as  “one 
who  took  to  a soldier’s  grave  the  love  of  the 
whole  world  and  the  name  of  Stonewall  Jack- 
son.” 

General  Garnett  was  one  of  those  who  had 
been  hurt  by  the  severity  of  the  hero’s  military 
discipline.  My  Soldier  had  charge  of  General 
Jackson’s  funeral  and  Garnett  came  to  him  and 
asked  permission  to  take  part.  Of  all  who  fol- 
lowed the  great  soldier  to  his  grave  there  was 
no  mourner  more  sincere.  All  antagonisms  were 
drowned  in  the  flood  of  veneration  which  surged 
around  his  name  and  fame. 


XIV 


THE  RED  FOX 

IN  my  next  vacation,  as  my  father  could  not 
come  to  Lynchburg  for  several  days  to  take 
me  home,  he  wrote  that  my  mother  sug- 
gested that  I accept  an  invitation  from  a class- 
mate in  Lovingston,  Virginia.  Four  others  of 
our  class  were  invited  and  we  were  having  an 
old-time  Virginia  house-party,  where  friends 
and  neighbors  vied  with  our  hosts  in  giving  us 
pleasure,  when  a telegram  came  from  my  father 
saying  that  his  old  friend,  Dr.  Seon,  a celebrated 
minister  who  had  just  romantically  made  his 
escape  from  prison  in  his  daughter’s  clothes, 
would  pass  through  Lynchburg  the  following 
day  and  would  escort  me  home.  Though  sorry 
to  make  a break  in  our  house-party  I was  glad 
to  go,  as  it  furthered  the  plan  of  my  Soldier, 
which  I had  feared  would  go  astray,  to  meet 
me  in  Petersburg  where  I was  to  stop  over  for 
a few  days  on  my  way  home.  On  the  train 
the  doctor  said : 


117 


118  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


“Lassie,  I found,  to  my  delight,  the  son  of 
an  old  friend  in  the  forward  coach,  whom  I 
would  like  to  present  to  you  if  I may.  I have 
just  told  him  I was  traveling  with  a little  lady- 
girl,  or  a little  girl-lady,  who  was  making  me 
forget  age  and  wars  and  troubles — just  a ripple 
of  sunshine,  but  a wee  bit  of  a rascal  withal. 
Shan’t  tell  you  what  else  I said,  nor  half  the 
things  he  told  me  in  reply  about  matching  you 
against  a certain  young  lady  of  his  acquaint- 
ance, which  young  lady,  I am  inclined  to  think, 
is  more  than  an  ‘acquaintance,’  so  I give  you 
fair  warning  not  to  fall  in  love  with  him.” 

I replied  that  I should  be  delighted  to  meet 
his  friend  but  needed  no  warning,  as  7 had  an 
acquaintance,  too,  who  was  more  than  an  ‘ac- 
quaintance,’ and  whom  I would  match  against 
the  entire  universe. 

I was  handing  the  remainder  of  our  luncheon 
out  of  the  window  to  a half -clad,  hungry  look- 
ing soldier  when  the  doctor  returned  with  his 
friend  and  said: 

“Miss  Corbell,  allow  me  to  present  to  you 
the  son  of  my  old  friend,  of  Henrico  County, 
Virginia,  General  Pickett.” 

My  heart  jumped  into  my  throat  with  delight 
and  surprise  and  in  breathless  jerks  I cried  out 
—“Oh,  my  Soldier,  my  Soldier.” 

“I  had  no  idea  whom  I was  to  have  the  honor 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  219 


of  meeting,”  said  my  Soldier.  “This,  doctor,  is 
the  acquaintance  of  whom  I spoke.” 

“Ali-lia !”  said  the  doctor,  “ah-ha !”  He  of- 
fered my  Soldier  his  seat  beside  me,  and  the  rest 
of  the  journey  was  a beautiful,  beautiful,  soulful 
dream.  My  Soldier  stopped  off  at  Richmond, 
and  I went  on  to  Petersburg,  where  I was  the 
guest  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Duncan. 

My  friends  in  Petersburg  had  announced  my 
coming,  and  a number  of  engagements  had  been 
made  for  me.  The  first  was  a large  party  at 
the  Johnsons’  and  the  next  at  the  Raglands’.  I 
did  not  know  whether  my  Soldier  would  approve 
of  my  going  without  him  and  I neither  wished 
to  go  nor  approved  of  it  myself,  so  I begged  to 
be  allowed  to  await  his  arrival  the  next  day  and 
make  my  first  appearance  with  him.  On  seeing 
his  look  of  loving  appreciation  I was  very 
thankful  to  have  made  the  decision.  The  party 
at  the  Raglands’  was  one  of  the  largest  and 
most  brilliant  ever  given  in  Petersburg,  and 
that  evening  our  engagement  was  announced. 

Two  days  later  I was  to  start  for  my  father’s 
home  but  was  amazed,  especially  as  my  Soldier 
was  in  command,  to  find  that  I could  not  get  a 
permit.  He  was  positive  in  his  refusal  and 
would  make  no  exception  in  my  favor.  How- 
ever, he  consented  to  date  for  me  a permit  a 
week  in  advance.  At  the  end  of  the  week  I said 


120  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


good-bye  to  him  at  the  station  and  for  the  first 
time  was  wounded  by  him,  almost  heart-broken, 
because  he  did  not  seem  as  sorry  at  parting  from 
me  as  I thought  he  ought  to  be.  Besides,  there 
was  a peculiar  quizzical  twinkle  in  his  eye  that 
puzzled  me  and  occupied  my  thoughts  all  the 
way  down  to  Ivor  Station,  where  my  uncle,  Doc- 
tor Phillips,  met  me.  Though  fretting  because 
the  parting  had  seemed  of  so  little  moment  to 
my  Soldier  and  wishing  that  I had  not  been 
sorry  either,  that  is,  not  so  sorry  as  I was,  the 
drive  from  the  station  proved  most  pleasant  and 
brought  us  to  my  uncle’s  near  noon.  That  even- 
ing as  I was  about  to  retire,  a little  after  eight 
(they  go  to  bed  early  in  the  country),  we  heard 
horses  galloping  down  the  lane. 

“Listen  to  the  clanking  of  the  swords,”  said 
my  uncle.  “Those  are  certainly  soldiers  and  I 
did  not  know  there  were  any  within  miles  of  us.” 

I listened,  heard  the  horses  turned  over  to  the 
orderly,  heard  footsteps  on  the  gravel,  then  on 
the  porch,  and  in  answer  to  my  uncle’s  greeting 
I recognized  with  unutterable  joy  the  voice  of 
my  own  Soldier  and  that  of  one  of  his  staff. 
They  were  asking  for  me,  had  been  welcomed, 
and  the  candle  was  lighting  them  into  the  par- 
lor. The  dread  mystery  of  my  Soldier’s  cheer- 
fulness at  parting  from  me  was  explained.  He 
had  come  through  on  the  same  day  with  a part 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  121 


of  his  division  and  they  were  then  in  camp  on 
the  Blackwater  a few  miles  distant. 

When  the  division  crossed  the  Blackwater  and 
marched  on  to  Suffolk  I went  to  the  home  of 
my  aunt,  Mrs.  Eley,  at  Barber’s  Cross  Roads, 
a distance  of  about  ten  miles  from  Suffolk. 
Here  when  all  was  quiet  along  the  lines  my 
Soldier  would  ride  in  from  his  headquarters  al- 
most every  night  between  the  hours  of  sunset 
and  sunrise  to  see  me — a ride  of  about  thirty 
miles.  While  these  short  visits  were  glimpses 
of  heaven  to  me,  they  resulted  sadly  for  my 
aunt,  whose  house,  in  consequence,  was  burned 
by  the  Federals. 

At  the  earnest  solicitation  of  my  Soldier,  who 
feared  my  remaining  within  the  enemy’s  lines, 
I went  to  an  old  friend  in  Richmond,  Mrs. 
Shields,  the  wife  of  Colonel  Shields.  When  on 
this  visit  I first  met  General  “Jeb”  Stuart,  the 
“Red  Fox”  of  the  Confederacy,  thus  named  be- 
cause of  the  blonde  glory  of  his  coloring  and 
the  swiftness  of  his  movements,  as  well  as  his 
wiliness  in  evading  pursuit.  He  was  said  to 
be  one  of  the  handsomest  men  in  the  South, 
and  perhaps  it  was  true,  but  I was  at  that  time 
too  much  absorbed  in  the  contemplation  of  the, 
to  me,  handsomest  man  in  the  world  to  have 
discriminating  eyes  for  the  beauty  of  anyone 
else. 


122  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


Among  those  of  our  officers  most  noted  for 
personal  attractions  was  General  Longstreet, 
who  was  thought  to  resemble  “Jeb”  in  appear- 
ance. A story  is  told  of  an  ardent  admirer  of 
the  “Red  Fox”  who,  meeting  the  “old  War 
Horse,”  General  Longstreet,  said,  “General  Stu- 
art, I just  met  a man  who  told  me  of  mistak- 
ing you  for  General  Longstreet,  but  I don’t  see 
how  he  could.  Longstreet  is  not  half  as  hand- 
some as  you  are.”  General  Longstreet  gravely 
replied,  “Yes,  I am  sometimes  taken  for  Long- 
street.” 

As  we  danced  at  a ball  at  “Yellow  Tavern” 
General  Stuart  teasingly  commiserated  my  Sol- 
dier on  his  bad  luck  in  belonging  to  the  infantry. 

“I  am  sorry  for  Pickett,  poor  fellow ! He  has 
to  walk.  Upon  my  word,  he  ought  to  be  in  the 
cavalry.  He  deserves  it.  What  a pity!  And 
you,  Miss  Lassie — why  should  you  throw  your- 
self away  on  the  infantry  ? You  ought  to  marry 
a cavalryman.” 

I tried  to  defend  myself  and  set  forth  the 
greater  advantages  of  the  infantry  service. 

“Pickett  is  lucky,”  he  replied,  “in  having  such 
a champion.  I am  in  love  with  him  myself  and 
agree  with  you  perfectly,  for  Pickett  can  do 
anything.  When  I see  him  dance  I think  he 
ought  to  be  a dancing-master.  When  I see  him 
ride  I think  he  ought  to  be  a cavalry  leader. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  123 


When  he  whistles  I think  he  ought  to  be  a bird. 
When  he  sings  it  seems  that  he  ought  to  be 
an  opera  star.  When  I see  him  lead  a charge  I 
feel  that  he  ought  to  spend  his  life  on  the  battle- 
field. Yes,  Pickett  can  do  anything  and  do  it 
well.  As  for  poor  me — all  I can  do  is  to  make 
love.” 

Inexperienced  as  I was,  I knew  that  the  “Red 
Fox”  could  do  everything  that  was  brave  and 
fine  and  great.  As  for  making  love — -there  was 
only  one  who  knew  his  power  in  that  art — the 
lovely  woman  who  possessed  all  his  gallant 
heart  and  has  worthily  borne  his  great  name 
through  years  of  wearing  toil  and  lonely  sor- 
row. 

In  the  battle  or  on  the  road  a song  or  a laugh 
was  always  on  his  lips  and  the  hearts  of  his 
men  leaped  np  to  meet  his  gayety  as  well  as  his 
fearlessness. 

To  few  men  is  it  given  to  go  through  a great 
war  untouched  by  any  ball  except  the  fatal  one. 
Such  was  the  gift  that  Mars  bestowed  upon  his 
brilliant  follower  and  in  less  than  a year  from 
that  festive  night  at  this  same  Yellow  Tavern 
the  blood-red  seal  was  set  upon  a youth  that 
was  immortal. 


XV 

THE  SMUGGLED  BRIDE 

Notwithstanding  war  and  war’s 

alarms,  when  I should  be  launched  into 
the  world  with  a diploma  in  my  hand 
and  the  blessings  of  my  Alma  Mater  on  my 
head  my  Soldier  was  to  marry  me.  Cupid  does 
not  readily  give  way  to  Mars,  and  in  our  South- 
ern country  a lull  between  bugle  calls  was  likely 
to  be  filled  with  the  music  of  wedding  bells. 
But  Mars  was  in  the  ascendant  for  the  time, 
and  when  I was  graduated  the  Army  of  North- 
ern Virginia  was  marching  to  an  undetermined 
battlefield  in  Pennsylvania. 

Then  came  Gettysburg,  and  the  wave  of  tri- 
umph set  rolling  at  Fredericksburg  and  mount- 
ing higher  at  Chancellorsville  surged  anew,  for 
the  first  news  that  came  to  us  was  of  a great 
victory.  So  we  rode  on  the  flood-tide  of  fancied 
success  and  fell  with  the  ebb. 

Soon  after  the  battle  my  Soldier  returned  to 
recruit  his  division.  On  Sunday  we  walked 


124 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  125 


down  Broad  Street  to  the  Monumental  Episco- 
pal Church.  It  was  the  first  time  we  had  gone  to 
church  together  and  he  was  telling  me  that 
this  church  was  called  the  Monumental  because 
it  was  built  upon  the  site  of  the  old  Richmond 
theater,  burned  in  1811.  My  Soldier’s  grand- 
mother was  a victim  of  the  fire,  as  were  the 
Governor  of  Virginia  and  more  than  sixty  of 
Richmond’s  best  known  citizens.  The  fire  and 
the  long  funeral  procession  had  been  described 
to  him  by  those  who  held  in  memory  the  mourn- 
ful cortege  darkening  the  streets  of  the  beauti- 
ful city  as  Death  had  clouded  the  lives  of  the 
thousands  who  followed  their  loved  ones  for  the 
last  time  on  earth. 

As  we  went  down  Broad  Street  Hill  we  saw  a 
little  Hebrew  child  standing  first  on  one  foot 
and  then  on  the  other,  crying.  He  had  rubbed 
his  dirty  hands  on  his  tear-stained  face  until  it 
was  covered  with  muddy  streaks. 

“Come,  come,  my  little  man,  wThat  is  the  mat- 
ter?” asked  my  Soldier. 

“My  shoes  is  a hurtin’  an’  pinchin’  me  so. 
They  feels  like  I was  a walkin’  on  red-hot  corn- 
cobs. Oh-oh-oh!  Mister,  I can’t  walk;  I can’t 
get  anywhere  at  all.” 

Kneeling,  my  Soldier  unlaced  and  took  off  the 
shoes,  rubbed  the  little  feet,  tied  the  shoes 
together,  handed  them  to  the  boy,  and  with  his 


126  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


own  clean  handkerchief  wiped  away  the  tears. 
Lifting  the  child  in  his  arms  he  carried  him 
home,  some  three  blocks  farther  on.  We  went 
our  way  and  as  I walked  beside  my  Soldier  in 
his  gray  uniform  cloaked  with  the  glory  and 
the  gloom  of  the  world’s  greatest  battle,  I felt 
prouder  of  the  simple  sweet  nature  offering 
sympathy  and  aid  to  “one  of  the  least  of  these” 
than  of  all  the  valor  of  the  soldier  on  the  field. 

Only  a few  days  before  he  had  ridden  from 
Gettysburg  to  Richmond,  cheer  after  cheer  fol- 
lowing him  along  the  way.  Men,  women  and 
children  were  at  the  roadside  to  welcome  him 
and  hang  garlands  on  his  horse.  He  had  been 
the  central  figure  in  a scene  so  supreme  that  it 
needed  not  victory  to  crown  it  with  glory.  Yet 
not  the  flowers  of  love  nor  the  echo  of  the  can- 
non’s thunder,  the  grave  duties  nor  the  heavy 
sorrows  that  were  laid  upon  him,  could  so  fill 
his  heart  as  to  leave  no  room  for  the  cry  of  suf- 
fering from  an  unknown  child. 

In  September  of  that  year  my  Soldier  mar- 
ried me.  He  had  confided  in  General  Long- 
street  and  asked  for  a furlough.  The  Corps 
Commander  replied  that  they  were  not  granting 
furloughs.  “But,”  he  said,  with  that  twinkle 
in  his  eye  so  well  remembered  by  all  who  knew 
General  Lee’s  “old  War  Horse,”  “I  might  detail 
you  for  special  duty  and  you  could  stop  off 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  127 


and  be  married.”  So  my  Soldier  was  detailed 
for  “special  duty.” 

Unfortunately,  the  FederaWs  south  of  the  line 
were  at  that  time  worshipping  exclusively  at 
the  shrine  of  Mars.  For  them  Cupid  was  abso- 
lutely dethroned.  So  much  opposed  were  they 
to  our  marriage  and  so  insistent  in  their  efforts 
to  induce  my  Soldier  to  pay  them  a prolonged 
visit  instead  of  wasting  his  time  in  wedding 
frivolities  that  it  became  necessary  for  me  to 
cross  the  lines.  This  I did  with  the  assistance 
of  my  uncle,  Doctor  John  T.  Phillips,  who  took 
my  father  and  me  under  his  protection,  smug- 
gled us  across,  my  father  driving  a load  of 
fodder  in  which  my  trunks  were  concealed.  My 
mother  could  not  leave  my  little  baby  brother, 
now  Dr.  Edwin  F.  Corbell,  an  eminent  and  be- 
loved physician  of  North  Carolina,  to  go  with 
me,  so  I was  accompanied  by  one  of  her  friends 
as  chaperon.  I quaked  inwardly  when  we  met 
some  Federal  cavalrymen  but  kept  up  a brave 
front  and,  recognizing  Dr.  Phillips,  the  riders 
allowed  his  permit  to  cover  the  party  and  we 
passed  on  our  way. 

At  Waverley  Station  we  were  met  by  my 
uncle,  Colonel  J.  J.  Phillips,  and  his  wife,  and 
by  my  Soldier’s  brother  and  aunt  and  uncle, 
Miss  Olivia  and  Mr.  Andrew  Johnston.  With 
them  we  went  on  to  Petersburg  and  on  Sep- 


128  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


tember  15,  1863,  in  St.  Paul’s  Church,  the 
marriage  took  place.  We  left  for  Richmond 
amid  the  salute  of  guns,  hearty  cheers,  the 
chimes  of  bells  and  the  music  of  bands  and 
bugles. 

As  by  that  time  the  food  supply  of  the  South 
was  reduced  to  narrow  limits,  salt  being  pro- 
cured by  digging  up  and  boiling  the  earth  from 
under  the  smokehouses,  browned  sweet  potatoes 
cut  into  bits  and  toasted  serving  for  coffee,  and 
lumps  of  sugar  being  sold  at  high  prices  for 
the  hospital  fund,  it  might  be  thought  that  our 
prospect  of  finding  a banquet  awaiting  us  in 
Richmond  was  not  brilliant.  But  friends  and 
relations  of  my  Soldier  had  exerted  themselves 
to  do  him  honor,  and  the  result  was  such  as  had 
not  been  seen  in  Virginia  for  many  a day.  It 
was  sora  season  and  so  generous  was  the 
supply  that  the  feast  was  afterward  known 
as  the  “wedding  sora-supper.”  The  birds  had 
been  killed  at  night  with  paddles,  for  the  South 
was  not  wasting  her  small  store  of  ammunition 
on  sora  with  so  many  more  important  targets 
in  sight.  The  birds,  killed  at  Curl’s  Neck  on 
the  James  River,  and  thousands  of  beaten  bis- 
cuit, gallons  of  terrapin  stew,  and  turkeys  boned 
and  made  into  salad  by  the  neighbors  and  the 
old  plantation  servants  under  the  supervision  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sims,  the  overseer  and  his  wife  at 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  129 


Turkey  Island,  my  Soldier’s  old  colonial  home, 
were  sent  us  as  bridal  presents.  Mrs.  Robert 
E.  Lee’s  gift  was  a fruit-cake,  the  making  of 
which  she  had  superintended,  and  Bishop 
Dudley’s  mother  sent  us  a black  fruit-cake 
that  had  been  put  away  for  her  own  golden 
wedding. 

The  only  men  in  civilian  evening  dress  were 
Mr.  Davis  and  his  Cabinet  and  a few  ministers 
and  very  old  men,  for  even  then  we  were  “rob- 
bing the  cradle  and  the  grave”  to  recruit  the 
Army,  and  the  women  were  sacrificing  every- 
thing to  help.  Through  kindness  of  friends  in 
Norfolk  a handsome  bridal  dress,  imported  for 
me  by  Mrs.  Boykin,  had  been  smuggled  across 
the  line.  It  was  so  unusual  that  after  Mrs. 
Davis  had  greeted  me  she  looked  in  astonish- 
ment at  my  costume  and  said : 

“Child,  where  did  you  get  these  clothes?” 

Turning  to  the  General,  smiling,  Mr.  Davis 
asked : 

“Where  did  you  get  the  little  lady  in  the 
clothes  ?” 

On  the  other  side  of  the  room  was  the  editor 
of  the  Richmond  Examiner,  who  had  been  mer- 
cilessly assailing  the  administration.  Mrs. 
Davis  called  her  husband’s  attention  to  him  but 
Mr.  Davis  said: 

“Let  us  not  look  that  way,  my  dear.  We  have 


130  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


come  to-night  to  see  beautiful  things  and  think 
pleasant  thoughts.” 

The  General’s  sister  invited  the  President 
and  Mrs.  Davis  to  the  dining-room. 

“What  a time  you  must  have  had  plucking 
them,”  said  Mr.  Davis  when  he  saw  the  sora. 

“A  part  of  the  gift  was  the  prepara- 
tion of  them,  even  to  the  last  shade  of  brown- 
ness.” 

My  memory  of  Mr.  Davis  that  evening  lin- 
gers with  special  significance  because  it  was  the 
last  time  that  I ever  saw  real  happiness  in  his 
earnest  face.  He  was  just  a free,  gallant  gentle- 
man that  night.  As  he  said,  he  had  come  to 
enjoy.  Clouds,  public  and  private,  were  gather- 
ing, and  soon  enough  there  was  no  longer  the 
possibility  of  forgetting.  I saw  him  often 
afterward  in  sadness,  but  never  again  with  the 
light  of  joy  on  his  face. 

Perhaps  there  was  never  anywhere  else  so 
varied  a collection  of  curios  for  the  adornment 
of  the  person  as  I had  assembled  for  a trous- 
seau. I had  gowns  remodeled  from  court  robes 
more  than  a century  old,  relics  of  grandmothers 
and  great-grandmothers ; frocks  of  home-woven 
material,  striped  with  vegetable  dyes  gathered 
from  the  woods,  and  trimmed  with  a passemen- 
terie made  of  various  kinds  of  seeds,  such  as 
canteloupe,  laces  knit  from  fine-spun  flax,  tat- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  131 


ting  and  crocheted  trimmings,  and  buttons 
carved  from  peach-stones. 

One  of  my  bonnets  was  made  of  the  lacy  lin- 
ing that  grows  on  the  inside  of  a gourd,  called 
my  dish-cloth  bonnet  because  the  soft  fabric 
was  used  also  for  the  less  ornamental  kitchen 
purpose.  In  the  absence  of  the  more  widely 
known  varieties  of  millinery  I used  the  silky 
milkweed  balls  for  white  roses  and  made 
bunches  of  grapes  from  picked  cotton  covered 
with  fleek-skin  and  tinted.  A bonnet  of  gray 
straw,  plaited  and  dyed  by  the  servants,  poke- 
shaped and  with  junk  roses  inside  the  brim,  was 
especially  becoming.  My  bridal  present  from 
my  pastor’s  wife  was  a very  wide  collar  of 
tatting  and  embroidery. 

The  wedding  robe  left  nothing  to  be  desired, 
for  it  was  of  white  satin  and  exquisite  shimmer- 
ing lace,  made  at  a center  of  fashion.  In  pass- 
ing I may  remark  that  the  possession  of  a real 
wedding  dress,  new  and  stylish,  was  a distinc- 
tion that  carried  with  it  a sense  of  obligation 
to  the  community  at  large,  and  my  bridal  gown 
graced  a number  of  weddings  after  my  own. 
It  was  last  worn  by  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
girls  of  the  Confederacy  who,  a few  days  later, 
exchanged  its  snowy  folds  for  the  sables  of 
widowhood  when  the  bridegroom  was  brought 
home  dead  from  the  battlefield.  Thus  tragically 


132  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


shadowed  the  dress  around  which  clustered  so 
many  happy  memories,  so  many  tender  senti- 
ments, and  so  many  sorrowful  recollections,  was 
laid  away  with  reverent  hands,  never  again  to 
glimmer  with  soft  sheen  through  the  misty  folds 
of  the  bridal  veil. 


XVI 

BUTLER  BOTTLED  UP 

MY  Soldier  was  at  this  time  assigned  to 
the  Department  of  North  Carolina,  with 
headquarters  at  Petersburg-,  Virginia, 
commanding  all  that  part  of  Virginia  between 
James  River  on  the  north  and  Cape  Fear  River 
on  the  south,  reaching  eastward  to  the  Federal 
lines  around  Suffolk  and  westward  to  the  Black 
Water  and  Chowan,  including  all  the  troops  in 
that  region. 

After  our  bridal  visits  to  kinspeople  we  re- 
turned to  Petersburg  where  we  found  that  our 
friends,  in  spite  of  the  restrictions  of  war,  had 
arranged  beautiful  rooms  for  us,  decorating 
them  luxuriantly  with  flowers  and  fitting  them 
up  handsomely. 

Among  the  many  who  helped  to  make  my  life 
happy  in  Petersburg  was  Major  Charles  Pick- 
ett, the  General’s  Assistant  Adjutant  General 
(the  “Little  Major,”  as  he  was  affectionately 
called  by  the  soldiers).  When  my  Soldier  in- 

133 


134  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


troduced  him  to  me  as  his  “little  brother”  he 
immediately  became  my  “little  brother,”  too, 
and  thus  he  was  in  my  life  and  my  heart  through 
all  the  years  that  he  remained  on  earth.  He 
walked  slightly  lame  from  a wound  received  at 
Frazier’s  Farm.  So  anxious  was  he  to  get  into 
the  fight  that  lie  disobeyed  orders  to  report  for 
staff  duty  in  Richmond  and  went  into  the  battle 
instead.  When  he  was  shot  he  begged  his  com- 
rades not  to  carry  him  off  the  field  but  to  leave 
him  his  flag  that  he  might  die  under  its  folds. 
But  he  lived  through  what  was  known  among 
the  men  as  “the  battle  the  little  Major  fought 
down  at  Frazier’s  Farm,”  and  thus  I came  into 
possession  of  “my  little  brother.”  Soon  after- 
ward he  married  Miss  Elizabeth  Smith  of  Wash- 
ington, and  brought  us  a dear  sister  who  was 
my  companion  in  the  rare  sunshine  and  the 
many  storms  of  war. 

All  this  region  was  historic  and  held  thrilling 
memories  of  the  battles  of  bygone  days.  As  we 
rode  over  the  ground  we  talked  of  the  old-time 
conflicts  and  my  Soldier  said  that  he  would  have 
been  glad  to  be  in  all  wars  that  were  for  a just 
cause.  I had  been  taught  that  the  Mexican  war 
was  without  such  justification,  and  asked  his 
opinion. 

“At  West  Point,”  he  replied,  “some  of  us 
were  reprimanded  for  expressing  a doubt  of  its 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  135 


justice.  I was  one  of  them.  After  we  were 
in  we  had  to  fight  it  out  and  as  it  must  be  done 
I wanted  to  do  my  share.” 

It  was  while  my  Soldier  was  stationed  at 
Petersburg  that  the  expedition  to  North  Caro- 
lina was  projected,  involving  Newbern  and 
Plymouth.  The  military  history  of  the  move- 
ment is  given  in  “Pickett  and  His  Men,”  but 
there  are  certain  personal  features  of  the  expe- 
dition which  have  been  recorded  in  my  memory, 
for  I would  not  be  left  behind  when  the  journey 
to  the  old  North  State  was  made.  I went  as 
far  as  the  house  of  a friend  on  the  Newbern 
road. 

The  night  was  bleak  and  frigid ; we  were  near- 
ing our  stopping  place.  My  Soldier,  always 
solicitous  for  his  men,  was  discussing  with  his 
staff  the  discomfort  to  which  they  would  he 
subjected  and  the  impossibility  of  alleviating 
their  suffering. 

“Poor  fellows!”  he  said.  “They  will  be  al- 
most frozen  and  no  wood,  and  General  Lee  will 
not  allow  us  to  burn  even  a single  rail.  There 
will  be  the  devil  to  pay  and  I powerless  to  help.” 

Observing  that  I had  awakened  and  heard 
his  last  remark  he  turned  reprovingly  to  Cap- 
tain Bright,  saying: 

“Bright,  how  dare  you  use  that  gentleman’s 
name  in  the  presence  of  my  wife?” 


136  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


“Beg  your  pardon,  Sister,”  said  Captain 
Bright,  “I  thought  you  were  asleep.” 

Whatever  relation  my  Soldier  might  bear  to 
his  staff  officers,  I was  always  “Sister.” 

“Don’t  you  think  I know  your  voice,  my  dear, 
from  Captain  Bright’s?”  I inquired. 

“No,  little  one,  you  could  not  possibly  know 
my  voice  in  connection  with  such  words,  and 
you  could  not  think  that  I would  use  such  lan- 
guage as  Bright  uses.” 

“Sister,”  said  Captain  Bright,  “before  the 
General  was  married  he  would  not  allow  any  of 
us  to  swear  at  all.  He  said  he  would  do  the 
swearing  for  the  whole  division.  Now  that 
he  is  married  we  have  not  only  to  do  all  our  own 
swearing  but  his,  too.” 

Had  it  not  been  for  the  versatile  imagination 
of  Colonel  Floweree,  the  Ananias  of  the  Seventh 
Virginia  Kegiment,  my  Soldier  and  I would 
probably  have  fared  badly.  The  hotel  was  im- 
possible and  the  community  was  of  Union  senti- 
ment. In  our  connection  with  the  Southern 
Army  we  could  expect  no  toleration.  In  this 
dilemma  Colonel  Floweree  undertook  to  grapple 
with  the  situation.  He  learned  that  the  most 
beautiful  and  luxurious  home  in  the  village  was 
owned  by  an  old  Baptist,  a power  in  the  church 
and  in  the  community,  who  was  known  to  be  not 
unwilling  to  make  an  occasional  sacrifice  of  po- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  137 


litical  opinions  to  religions  fraternity.  Colonel 
Floweree  called  upon  the  good  brother  and,  with 
an  intonation  that  he  could  have  learned  no- 
where but  from  the  pious  and  hardshell  Bap- 
tists of  that  region  and  period,  said : 

“My  dear  Brother,  I know  what  a good  Bap- 
tist you  are  and  how  ready  you  are  to  help  all 
your  brethren  in  the  Lord.  I have  my  good 
General,  Brother  Pickett,  out  here  with  his  dear 
pious  wife,  Sister  Pickett,  both  good  Baptists, 
and  I beg  you  to  extend  to  them  the  hospitality 
of  your  home  and  entertain  them  as  best  you 
can  for  the  sake  of  brotherly  love.” 

“If  I do,”  said  the  old  man  hesitatingly,  “the 
Yankees  may  burn  my  house;  but  I must  take 
the  chances,  I cannot  let  my  brethren  sutler. 
Yes,  let  the  good  brother  and  sister  come  in  and 
share  what  I have.” 

We  were  received  with  fraternal  hospitality, 
our  host  shaking  hands  with  us  solemnly,  say- 
ing, “How  do  you  do,  Brother  Pickett?  How 
are  you,  Sister  Pickett?”  in  a voice  that  invested 
us  with  the  sanctity  of  the  church. 

I was  interested  to  observe  that  our  host  had 
but  one  eye,  his  wife  was  cross-eyed,  and  their 
daughter  was  cock-eyed.  These  optical  phenom- 
ena were  afterward  scientifically  explained  by 
our  Baptist  brother. 

“I  was  engaged  to  a cross-eyed  girl,”  he  said, 


138  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


“and  my  people  objected  to  the  marriage.  I 
was  about  to  give  it  up  when  one  day  I was 
cutting  wood  and  the  end  of  the  stick  flew  up 
and  hit  me  in  the  eye  and  put  it  out.  It  was 
the  judgment  of  the  Lord  and  I repented  and 
married  my  cross-eyed  girl.  Then  when  our 
girl  was  born  the  hand  of  the  accusing  angel 
touched  her  and  she  was  cock-eyed  to  keep  me 
in  mind  of  my  sin.” 

Petersburg,  the  gate  to  Richmond,  was  the 
weakest  point  of  the  Confederacy,  and  my  Sol- 
dier had  explained  its  position  to  the  authorities 
in  Richmond  and  asked  that  provision  for  its 
defense  should  be  made.  His  warning  disre- 
garded, he  wrote  a confidential  letter  on  the 
subject  to  General  Lee,  who  sent  an  officer  to 
Richmond,  urging  immediate  action.  Still  noth- 
ing was  done  and  when,  on  the  5th  of  May,  But- 
ler with  thirty  thousand  troops  moved  upon  the 
town,  which  was  defended  by  only  six  hundred 
men  (two  hundred  of  whom  were  ineffective), 
the  government  and  the  country  were  as  much 
surprised  as  if  they  had  never  heard  of  the 
danger. 

Though  my  Soldier  had  been  ordered  a few 
days  before  to  report  to  the  Army  of  Northern 
Virginia,  he  could  not  leave  Petersburg  to  de- 
struction. In  defiance  of  orders  he  remained 
in  the  beleaguered  city.  The  day  after  the  at- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  139 


tack  a part  of  the  South  Carolina  brigade  came 
in  and,  being  placed  at  Walthall  Junction,  about 
six  miles  from  Petersburg,  drove  back  Butler’s 
advance  column.  Wise’s  Virginia  brigade  ar- 
rived on  the  seventh  and  was  sent  toward  City 
Point.  Then  three  brigades  of  Pickett’s  division 
began  coming  in  as  fast  as  the  crippled  ex- 
press could  bring  them,  and  we  had  eleven 
pieces  of  artillery. 

We  women  carried  the  dispatches,  cooked  the 
food  and  took  it  to  the  men  at  the  guns.  At 
train  time  we  would  go  to  the  station  and  send 
up  cheer  after  cheer  of  welcome,  hoping  to  blind 
the  Federals  to  the  fact  that  the  cars,  returning 
from  their  short  trip  to  the  country,  brought  in 
only  the  half-starved  railroad  men.  The  roar 
of  cannon  and  the  shrieks  of  shot  and  shell 
filled  our  ears  day  and  night.  During  the  en- 
tire week,  until  Petersburg  was  safe  and  Gen- 
eral Grant  had  sent  his  famous  telegram  to  Mr. 
Lincoln,  “Pickett  has  bottled  up  Butler  at 
Petersburg,”  my  Soldier  scarcely  slept,  and  I 
saw  him  only  when  I carried  to  him  on  the  lines 
a dispatch  or  his  bread  and  soup  and  coffee. 
This  telegram  so  angered  Butler  that  he  came 
up  the  James  River,  out  of  the  line  of  battle, 
at  great  expense  to  the  United  States  Govern- 
ment, and  sacked  and  burned  my  Soldier’s  beau- 
tiful ancestral  home. 


140  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


The  city  council  of  Petersburg  voted  a resolu- 
tion of  thanks  to  my  Soldier  for  his  brave  de- 
fense of  the  city.  The  people  wished  to  express 
their  gratitude  by  a gift  to  me.  It  was  im- 
possible to  buy  a service  of  silver,  so  each 
brought  a fork,  a salt-spoon,  a pitcher,  as  the 
case  might  be,  until  more  than  a thousand  pieces 
were  given  to  me.  One  woman,  having  no  silver 
because  she  had  been  compelled  to  sell  her 
household  service,  brought  a pretty  gilt-bor- 
dered cup.  The  gifts  of  affection  were  of  far 
greater  value  to  me  than  the  most  elegant  and 
costly  new  set  of  silver  could  have  been  and 
were  carefully  cherished  until,  in  the  fire  which 
marked  the  surrender  of  Richmond,  they,  with 
all  my  bridal  presents  and  everything  of  value, 
were  burned  in  the  warehouse  in  Richmond 
where  they  had  been  placed  for  safe-keeping. 

One  morning  in  May  in  the  early  dawn  we 
rode  out  of  the  city  of  sweet  memories  and 
days  of  terror,  pausing  to  look  back  at  the  far- 
off  Church  of  Saint  Paul,  new-lit  by  the  rising 
sun,  where  we  had  plighted  our  troth. 


XVII 


ON  THE  LINES 

OUR  next  station  was  on  the  “Bermuda 
Hundred”  lines  near  the  heart  of  the 
storm,  but  there  were  rifts  of  sunshine 
to  break  the  gloom. 

A tent  was  our  first  home  and  later  a log 
cabin.  Major  Charles  Pickett’s  log  cabin  near 
our  own  had  two  rooms,  a degree  of  splendor 
to  which  no  one  else  attained. 

We  had  friends- — such  friends  as  war  binds 
together  with  links  that  can  never  be  broken. 
The  wives  of  many  of  the  officers  were  there. 
The  few  new  books  we  had  were  exchanged 
until  they  were  read  through  and  through 
and  almost  learned  by  heart.  If  one  of  us 
fortunately  came  into  possession  of  a month- 
old  paper  it  went  the  rounds  and  was  more 
eagerly  perused  than  are  the  morning  journals 
now,  just  off  the  press  with  the  news  of  the 
hour  fresh  and  hot.  We  visited,  walked,  talked, 
rode  and  danced  half  the  night  away  lest 


141 


142  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


it  should  be  over-long  and  bring  darksome 
dreams.  How  could  we  live  on  the  rim  of 
a volcano  if  we  could  not  dance  around  its 
crater? 

At  the  Howlett  House  not  all  our  evenings 
were  given  over  to  pleasure.  The  Federals  had 
a theory  that  business  should  come  first,  and 
would  thrust  their  views  upon  us  at  inopportune 
times,  frequently  arousing  us  from  slumber. 
These  nocturnal  attacks  were  veritable  scenes 
from  the  Inferno  displayed  against  the  black 
curtain  of  night— swords  flashing  through  the 
darkness,  guns  thundering  across  the  silence 
that  had  brooded  over  the  earth,  weapons  clash- 
ing, the  roar  of  orders  sweeping  over  the  field — 
all  the  demoniac  sounds  of  battle  crashing 
through  a blackness  that  enshrouded  our  world. 
He  who  has  looked  upon  such  a scene  needs  no 
fiend  of  darkness  to  roll  back  for  him  the  heavy 
curtain  that  hides  the  world  of  demons.  Even 
the  bravest  of  the  brave  doubted  their  courage 
in  a night  attack. 

After  one  of  these  encounters  when  the 
wounded  were  brought  in  I saw  my  Soldier  stop 
beside  two  of  them,  one  a Federal  and  the  other 
a Confederate.  Pointing  to  the  northern  sol- 
dier he  said : 

“Please  attend  first  to  our  guest,  doctor.” 

Then  he  gave  his  handkerchief  to  serve  as  a 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  143 


tourniquet  to  stop  the  bleeding  of  the  Federal 
soldier’s  wound. 

It  was  at  the  Bermuda  Hundred  line  that  I 
first  saw  General  Grant.  My  Soldier  and  I were 
riding  along  looking  at  the  Federal  gunboats 
and  monitors  not  more  than  a few  hundred 
yards  from  our  headquarters  when  I saw  a puff 
of  smoke  drifting,  scattering,  a mere  shadow 
as  it  floated  higher  and  was  lost  against  the 
blue  sky. 

“Look,  look!”  I exclaimed.  “Isn’t  that  beau- 
tiful ?” 

“Dangerously  beautiful.  It  is  from  a shell. 
The  enemy  are  firing  over  there.  Come,  dear; 
whip  up  your  horse  and  let  me  get  you  out 
of  this  as  soon  as  I can.” 

“No,  indeed,”  I said.  “Pm  not  a bit  afraid, 
and  if  I were  do  you  think  I would  let  Pickett’s 
men  see  me  run?” 

“Come,  dear,  please!  You  are  in  danger, 
useless  danger,  and  that  is  not  bravery.” 

The  soldiers  did  not  seem  to  agree  with  him, 
for  Corse’s  Brigade  sent  up  cheer  after  cheer 
as  we  passed.  Captain  Smith,  just  then  riding 
across  the  field,  stopped  to  speak  to  us. 

“The  Federals  are  testing  some  guns,  I think, 
for  the  entertainment  of  visitors,”  he  explained, 
“and  are  not  firing  at  us.  They  are  over  there 
to  the  right  of  that  oak.”  He  handed  us  his 


144  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


field  glass.  “Mrs.  Grant  is  standing  between 
those  two  short,  stout  men.  The  one  at  the  left 
with  a cigar  in  his  mouth  is  Grant.  The  shorter, 
stouter  one  on  the  right  is  Ingalls,  Grant’s 
Quartermaster-General.” 

“Yes,  that’s  Rufus.  See  him  laugh,  the  old 
rascal!”  said  my  Soldier,  a glint  of  the  old- 
time  affection  shining  in  his  eyes  and  vibrating 
in  his  voice.  He,  Grant  and  Ingalls  were  old 
friends,  having  been  comrades  in  Mexico  and 
the  West.  “But  come,  let’s  ride  on.” 

“Yes,”  said  Captain  Smith,  “it  is  not  safe 
here.  I would  take  Mrs.  Pickett  away.  Turn 
to  the  left  there  into  that  clump  of  trees.” 

“Unfortunately,  Captain,  Mrs.  Pickett  out- 
ranks me ; she  will  not  go.” 

“Permit  me,  please,  Mrs.  Pickett,  to  add  my 
entreaties  to  those  of  the  General.  It  really 
is  not  safe  here.” 

“Let  me  get  down  and  try  our  guns,  too,  and 
then  I’ll  go,”  I answered. 

“Not  for  the  world,”  exclaimed  my  Soldier. 
“They  are  not  shooting  at  us.  Mrs.  Grant  is 
so  kind-hearted  that  she  would  not  approve  of 
their  shooting  in  this  direction  if  she  thought 
it  would  interrupt  our  morning  ride.  Besides, 
she  is  exceedingly  cross-eyed  and  does  not  know 
directions.” 

The  Captain  saluted  my  Soldier,  lifted  his 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  145 


hat  to  me,  suggestively  pointed  to  the  grove 
on  our  left  and  rode  away.  I watched  him,  ad- 
miring his  fine  horsemanship.  Beginning  to 
feel  remorseful  for  my  obstinate  resistance  to 
his  appeal  I was  about  to  turn  off  to  the  safe 
path  when  one  of  the  aimless  cannon  balls  swept 
across  the  field  and  I saw  the  Captain’s  horse 
careering  madly  along  bearing  a headless  body. 
Impulsively  I sprang  from  my  horse  and  ran 
and  picked  up  the  poor  head,  and  I solemnly 
believe  that  the  dying  eyes  looked  their 
thanks  as  the  last  glimmering  of  life  flickered 
out.  Those  pathetically  grateful  eyes  have 
looked  at  me  many  times  through  the  mists 
of  vanished  years  and  with  them  has  come 
the  booming  of  the  guns  that  threw  black 
bars  across  the  sunshine  of  that  far  away 
morning. 

The  memory  of  General  Grant  often  came  to 
me  afterward  associated  with  that  awful  sight 
following  my  first  view  of  him  across  the  water 
where  he  stood  peacefully  smoking  on  the  slope. 
The  fact  that  he  remembered  the  old  friendship 
with  my  Soldier  was  impressed  upon  me  many 
times  after  my  view  of  him  through  field 
glasses. 

Among  the  friends  whom  I often  met  at  this 
station  was  General  Robert  E.  Lee.  It  has 
been  said  that  our  Commanding  General  never 


146  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


knew  or  cared  what  he  ate,  and  it  is  true  that  he 
did  not,  in  comparison  with  the  welfare  of  his 
soldiers.  Once  when  he  and  his  staff  lunched 
with  us  I gave  them  one  of  our  famous  Bruns- 
wick stews,  made  of  chicken,  a slice  of  pork, 
corn,  tomatoes  and  Lima  beans,  with  bay-leaf 
and  onion  seasoning,  and  cooked  slowly.  It 
was  particularly  good  this  day,  as  I had  re- 
ceived a gift  of  some  smuggled  salt  and  could 
afford  to  use  it  lavishly,  and  General  Lee  said 
the  stew  was  the  most  delicious  thing  he  had 
ever  tasted.  I had  just  made  some  walnut 
pickles  of  which  I was  very  proud.  He  praised 
them  and  told  me  that  in  his  house  he  had  them 
many  years  old  and  that  the  “older  they  became 
the  better  they  were.” 

“But,  you  know,”  he  said,  “I  never  eat  any- 
thing good  without  thinking  of  the  soldiers  and 
their  privations.” 

One  evening  in  Richmond  my  Soldier  and  I 
were  invited  to  spend  the  evening  with  Senator 
and  Mrs.  Clement  C.  Clay,  and  while  there 
General  Lee  called.  We  had  ice  cream  made  of 
buttermilk  and  sweetened  with  sorghum,  and 
lemonade  made  with  lemons  from  the  conserva- 
tory of  our  hostess.  She  remarked  that  she 
had  been  saving  those  lemons  for  the  soldiers 
in  the  hospital  but  that  she  had  more  which  she 
would  give  to  them.  “If  you  will  be  sure  not 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  147 


to  forget  the  soldiers,”  said  General  Lee,  “I 
will  enjoy  this  lemonade.” 

The  General  called  me  “Sweet  Nansemond” 
because  I came  from  Nansemond  County,  as  did 
the  famous  sweet  potatoes  which  the  hucksters 
hawked  about  the  streets,  calling  out,  “Nanse- 
monds ! Sweet  Nansemonds!”  and  I rather  re- 
sented this  vegetable  suggestion,  not  liking  to 
be  associated  with  potatoes  even  in  the  mind 
of  General  Lee. 

Though  sympathetic  and  warm-hearted,  our 
General  had  a natural  dignity  of  manner  which, 
though  inspiring  confidence,  interposed  a veil  of 
reserve  between  him  and  even  his  warmest 
admirers.  Years  after  the  war  one  of  my 
friends  who  had  been  an  officer  in  the  Army  of 
Northern  Virginia,  first  under  General  Joe 
Johnston  and  then  under  General  Lee,  said  to 
me : 

“Lee  was  a great  soldier  and  a good  man  but 
I never  wanted  to  put  my  arms  around  his  neck 
and  kiss  him  as  I wanted  to  do  with  Joe  John- 
ston.” 

With  a bit  of  a jealous  feeling  for  my  own 
Soldier  I asked : 

“Did  you  want  to  do  that  to  General  Pickett?” 

“To  Pickett  ? — Why,  I not  only  wanted  to  but 
I did.” 

One  evening  when  General  Lee,  General 


148  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


Beauregard,  my  Soldier  and  his  Brigade  Com- 
manders were  studying  war-maps  in  our  cabin 
and  confidentially  discussing  the  freeing  of  the 
slaves  and  the  enlisting  of  them  as  soldiers, 
General  Lee  finished  by  saying: 

“Well,  gentlemen,  we  must  hope  for  the  best. 
If  we  should  give  up  there  are  many  who  would 
feel  that  we  had  sold  the  South — many  of  our 
Southern  States  would  think  so,  for  even  they 
have  no  idea  that  we  have  come  to  the  last  of 
our  resources  and  no  realization  of  how  starv- 
ing and  poor  we  are,  and,  alas,  gentlemen,  too 
much  of  the  best  blood  of  the  land  is  being 
spilled,  too  many  homes  being  despoiled  and 
made  desolate,  too  many  mothers  with  broken 
hearts.” 

Solemnly  they  shook  hands  and  General  Lee 
and  his  companions  galloped  off,  my  Soldier 
and  I standing  in  the  doorway  listening. 

“Hear  the  horses’  hoofs  saying,  ‘Blood-blood, 
Blood-blood,’  ” said  I. 

‘So  they  do,  little  one,”  answered  my  Soldier. 
“Strange — strange  I had  not  thought  of  that 
before.” 

We  turned  to  the  map  on  the  floor  and  rolled 
up  the  ways  to  go  and  prayed  for  a miracle  to 
bring  success. 


XVIII 


THE  AMENITIES 

WE  were  near  the  Federal  lines  and  the 
men  on  the  opposing  sides  enjoyed 
friendly  chats  with  each  other, 
swapped  jokes,  bartered  tobacco  for  coffee  and 
exchanged  newspapers. 

The  Federals  kept  their  cattle  in  a stockade 
in  the  rear  of  their  camp.  Early  one  morning 
they  were  surprised  to  see  Confederate  soldiers 
running  along  the  line  in  a maimer  suggestive 
of  a drove  of  highly  excited  cows. 

“What’s  the  matter  with  you,  Johnnies,  over 
there?”  came  the  query  across  the  lines.  “Are 
you  all  crazy?” 

The  only  answer  was  a vociferous  and  long- 
drawn  out  chorus  of  “Moo-o-o ! Moo-o-o ! 
Moo-o-o !” 

Disgusted  with  the  pertinaceous  lunacy  of 
their  foes  the  blue-coats  gave  up  the  conundrum. 
A little  while  later  the  problem  was  solved.  In 
the  night  General  J.  E.  B.  Stuart  with  some 


149 


150  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


of  his  men  had  circled  the  camp  and  driven  off 
all  the  Federal  cattle,  and  the  “Moo!”  of  the 
Confederates  was  a graphic  announcement  to 
the  victims  of  their  loss.  For  a time  the 
“Johnnies”  fared  sumptuously  on  steak  and 
roast  while  the  “Yanks”  were  compelled  to 
forage  till  they  could  lay  in  a new  supply  of  live 
stock. 

The  red  flag  of  the  politicians  never  wholly 
divided  the  hearts  of  the  soldiers  into  hostile 
camps.  Not  only  did  the  West  Pointers  retain 
the  comradeship  of  the  old  Army  days,  but  the 
enlisted  men  shared  the  friendly  sentiment. 

In  the  summer  of  ’63  the  Confederate  and 
Federal  soldiers  doing  duty  on  opposite  banks 
of  the  Black  Water  River  in  Virginia  were  wont 
to  divert  themselves  by  trading  with  each  other. 
They  had  built  for  their  traffic  a miniature  fleet 
of  rudely  but  ingeniously  carved  boats.  One 
of  these  little  vessels  would  be  taken  up  stream, 
the  current  of  which  was  seldom  strong,  and 
with  rudder  fixed  it  would  go  down  the  river 
with  its  cargo  of  sugar  and  coffee  wrapped  in 
the  latest  newspaper  and  stored  in  the  scooped 
deck,  and  would  be  grappled  and  hauled  in  by 
the  sentry  on  the  opposite  side.  Back  the  same 
trusty  little  carrier  dove  would  come,  laden  with 
plugs  of  tobacco,  wrapped  likewise  in  the  latest 
paper  on  that  side.  Cheers  and  shouts  from 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  151 


both  lines  would  greet  each  cargo  as  it  touched 
the  shore. 

One  morning  a short  time  after  the  battle  of 
Gettysburg  the  Confederates  anxiously  awaited 
the  return  of  their  little  craft.  It  came  and 
was  enthusiastically  received,  but  to  their  sur- 
prise, no  answering  shout  went  up  from  the 
opposite  shore  on  the  landing  of  the  boat.  The 
cargo,  much  to  their  disappointment,  was 
wrapped  in  brown  paper. 

“Well,  we  have  whipped  them  Yanks  again 
as  sure  as  guns,”  they  argued  sympathetically 
in  explanation  of  the  silence  and  the  brown 
paper.  The  vessel  was  sent  back  and  on  the 
paper  in  which  the  cargo  was  wrapped  were 
these  words : 

“We-all  are  so  sorry  for  you-all  Yanks,  but  we 
won’t  crow  loud,  so  send  along  the  paper.” 

The  boat  returned  with  the  paper,  on  the  mar- 
gin of  which  was  written: 

“ ’Twas  sech  darned  infernal  hard  luck  in 
the  papers  for  you  Eebs  we  was  ’feared  they’d 
sink  the  coffee.” 

In  the  old  Army  my  Soldier  had  a dear  com- 
rade, at  this  time  a General  in  the  Army  of  the 
Potomac.  His  brother  had  the  misfortune  to  be 
captured  and  put  into  Libby  prison  and,  in 
memory  of  the  old  friendship,  my  Soldier  se- 
cured his  release  and  took  him  as  a guest  into 


152  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


our  home,  the  old  Pickett  mansion  in  Richmond. 
In  an  unaccountable  moment  of  indiscretion  he 
wrote  a letter  in  which  he  said  that  the  Confed- 
eracy was  on  its  last  legs,  stating  that  he  was 
in  a home  of  wealth,  where  there  was  a house 
full  of  servants,  and  in  the  morning  the  basket 
was  sent  to  market  packed  full  of  money  and 
brought  back  only  half  full  of  provisions.  This 
letter  fell  into  the  hands  of  Judge  Ould,  Com- 
missioner of  exchange  of  prisoners,  who  imme- 
diately reported  it  and  the  offending  writer 
was  returned  to  prison.  My  Soldier’s  sympathy 
was  not  cooled  by  this  unhappy  incident,  and 
later  he  secured  permission  for  me  to  go  to  the 
prison  at  will  and  take  whatever  I could  of  our 
scanty  store  that  would  be  a help  or  comfort 
to  him — beaten  biscuit,  eggs,  milk  or  fruit. 
However  unpromising  the  outlook  might  be  I 
always  managed  to  find  something  for  him. 
Every  week  when  I would  take  him  clean  linen 
the  other  prisoners  would  cut  dice  for  that 
which  he  left  off.  Of  more  value  than  anything 
else  was  the  gourd  of  soft  soap  which  I carried 
to  him,  for  we  had  no  salt  to  make  hard  soap. 
I think  he  cared  more  for  the  human  interest 
that  I brought  from  outdoor  life,  the  glint  of 
sunshine,  however  dark  my  own  heart  might 
be. 

It  was  thus  that  I saw  the  inside  of  Libby 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  153 


prison.  Let  no  man  who  did  not  see  Libby 
prison  in  the  last  days  of  the  Confederacy  im- 
agine for  a moment  that  he  is  able  to  conceive 
of  any  fraction  of  its  infernal  horror.  It  is 
easy  to  understand  that,  in  a country  where 
the  soldiers  were  starving  in  the  field  and 
families  were  starving  at  home,  a prison  would 
not  be  a comfortable  place  of  abode,  but  it  would 
have  to  be  seen  to  be  in  the  least  appreciated. 
When  I look  back  through  memory  at  that  scene 
of  indescribable  wretchedness,  unutterable 
gloom  and  despair,  I can  almost  envy  those 
whose  fancy  falls  so  far  short  of  the  reality. 

It  had  been  many  months  since  the  authorities 
of  the  North  had  set  a rigid  bar  against  the 
exchange  of  prisoners,  involving  the  reinforce- 
ment of  the  Confederate  Army.  It  was  impos- 
sible for  the  South  to  replace  her  captured  men, 
while  the  Federal  Army  could  be  easily  kept  in 
full  force  by  new  recruits.  Mr.  Davis  had 
vainly  pleaded  for  exchange  on  the  field.  He 
had  sent  two  Federal  prisoners  to  Washington 
to  represent  our  condition  and  the  impossibility 
of  feeding  prisoners  in  addition  to  trying  to 
keep  our  own  soldiers  from  starvation.  The 
stern  necessities  of  war  had  prevailed  against 
him.  The  prisoners  themselves  had  given  as- 
sent to  the  sad  fate  that  was  to  be  theirs.  They 
had  offered  their  lives  for  their  country.  What 


154  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


mattered  it  whether  the  supreme  sacrifice  was 
accepted  in  the  swift  glory  of  the  battle  flash 
or  in  the  long  dreary  darkness  of  a hopeless  im- 
prisonment. 

In  my  visits  to  the  prison  I met  and  knew 
other  unfortunate  ones  and  am  thankful  that  I 
was  able  to  minister  to  some  of  them.  Among 
my  son’s  and  my  own  best  friends  in  after  years 
were  some  whom  I first  met  in  that  awful,  woe- 
ful place. 

Dining  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Beverly  Tucker 
at  a hotel  in  Washington  years  after  the  war, 
I saw  a strange  gentleman  at  a table  near,  gaz- 
ing so  earnestly  at  me  that  I said  to  my  host, 
“Is  that  gentleman  some  one  whom  I should 
know  and  speak  to?”  Mr.  Tucker  looked  up, 
half  inclined  to  be  offended.  The  stranger  rose 
and  came  to  our  table. 

“Excuse  me,”  he  said,  bowing  to  my  host  and 
hostess.  Turning  to  me,  his  voice  trembling, 
he  said,  “Forgive  this  intrusion  but  I couldn’t 
help  it.  I want  to  ask  you,  please,  if  you  ever 
gave  buttermilk  and  soft  soap,  fresh  figs,  a clean 
shirt,  a world  of  sunshine  and  a lot  of  other 
things  to  a poor,  wounded,  weary,  homesick  boy 
in  Libby  prison?  Aren’t  you  the  lady?  You 
are;  don’t  you  remember  me?” 

The  tears  were  streaming  down  his  face  now 
as  he  held  out  his  hand. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  155 


“Yes,”  I said,  “I  remember;  of  course,  I re- 
member. You  are  the  poor  wounded  boy  tbe 
prisoners  used  to  call  Little  Willie  Sourmilk, 
Little  Kentuck,  Baby  Blue,  etc.” 

“Yes;  that’s  me,  and,  oh,  I am  so  glad  that 
I have  found  you  at  last.  Do  you  know  that 
I have  prayed  to  God  every  night  that  I might, 
and,  lady,  you  never  will  know  what  a benedic- 
tion your  visits  were  to  old  Libby,  and  me — 
oh,  you  saved  my  life;  I never  can  forget  that 
first  day.  It  was  in  June.  The  roses  were  in 
bloom,  and  such  roses!  A great  bunch  was 
lying  on  the  top  of  your  basket.  I was 
stretched  out  on  the  table  near  the  barred  win- 
dow trying  to  think  of  old  Kentucky  and  forget 
my  wounds  when  I heard  a voice  say,  ‘Little 
fellow,  would  you  like  to  have  a beaten  biscuit 
and  a glass  of  buttermilk?’  Would  I?  Oh, 
God,  would  I?’  I said.  When  you  went  away 
you  left  half  the  roses  on  my  pillow,  and  how 
I watched  for  your  visits  after  that.  I never 
knew  your  name,  never  knew  how  to  find  you. 
To  us  prisoners  you  were  the  Bose  Lady.” 

His  tears  had  washed  off  the  kiss  on  my  hand 
and  I was  back  again,  looking  into  the  wild, 
harrowing,  despairing  faces  in  the  dismal  to- 
bacco-warehouse prison,  all  regardless  of  my 
host  and  hostess  and  the  surrounding  guests. 

“Well,  I’ll  be  dogged,  Jane,”  said  Mr.  Tucker 


156  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


to  his  dear  little  wife.  “What  do  yon  think  of 
this?  I always  did  believe  every  word  of  those 
Ali  Baba  and  Forty  Thieves  and  Magic  Lantern 
tales  and  this  proves  them,  for  they  are  not  a 
bit  stranger  than  this  sour  buttermilk  story.” 

The  stranger  was  Colonel  William  H.  Low- 
dermilk,  of  Anglim’s  Bookstore.  When  later  I 
lost  all  my  worldly  goods  and  was  appointed 
to  a desk  in  the  Pension  Office,  Colonel  Lowder- 
milk,  then  of  the  firm  of  Lowdermilk  & Com- 
pany, Book-Dealers,  wrote  to  the  Commissioner 
of  Pensions  a strong  letter  of  commendation,  in 
which  he  told  in  warmest  terms  of  my  care  of 
himself  and  other  Union  soldiers  in  Libby 
prison,  and  asked  that  every  courtesy  and  con- 
sideration be  shown  to  me  for  all  time  and  in 
every  possible  way,  in  sacred  memory  of  the 
boys  in  Libby.  Throughout  his  life  afterward 
he  was  a devoted,  loyal  friend  to  me  and  mine. 

I still  have  the  photograph  of  him  taken  in 
his  Federal  uniform  before  he  was  captured. 


XIX 


THE  CLOSING  DAYS 

THE  close  of  the  stormy  career  of  the  Con- 
federacy was  marked  in  blood  by  the 
battle  of  Five  Forks.  The  end  was  at 

hand. 

The  Army  had  subsisted  on  corn  for  many 
days.  As  my  Soldier  was  riding  to  Sailor’s 
Creek  a woman  ran  out  of  a house  by  the  road- 
side and  handed  him  a luncheon  wrapped  in 
paper.  Passing  on,  he  saw  a man  lying  behind 
a log;  a deserter,  he  supposed.  What  did  it 
matter?  The  poor  fellows  had  fought  long 
enough  and  hard  enough  to  earn  the  right  to  go 
home.  He  spoke  to  the  man,  who  looked  up, 
revealing  a boyish  face.  He  was  thin  and  pale, 
scarcely  more  than  a child. 

“Are  yon  wounded,  my  boy?”  asked  my  Sol- 
dier. 

“No,  General,  I am  starving,  sir,”  he  replied. 
“I  could  not  keep  up  any  longer  and  lay  down 
here  to  die.  I couldn’t  help  it,  Marse  George.” 


157 


158  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


“Here,  take  this,”  said  my  Soldier.  “Eat  it, 
and  when  you  are  rested  and  have  slept  go  back 
home.” 

The  soldier  took  the  luncheon  gratefully. 

“No,  Marse  George,”  he  answered,  “if  I get 
strength  to  go  on  I’ll  follow  you  and  Marse  Rob- 
ert  to  the  last.” 

He  did  follow  to  the  last,  being  killed  a few 
days  later  at  Sailor’s  Creek,  where  the  parting 
salute  was  fired  over  the  grave  of  the  Con- 
federacy. 

‘ ‘ They  failed  and  fell,  who  bade  the  sun  in  heaven  to 
stand, 

We  failed  and  fell,  who  set  our  bars  against  the 
progress  of  the  stars, 

And  stayed  the  march  of  Motherland.  ’ ’ 

Many  months  before  the  farewell  shot,  when 
some  one  applied  to  President  Lincoln  for  a 
pass  to  go  into  Richmond,  he  gravely  replied: 

“I  don’t  know  about  that ; I have  given  passes 
to  about  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  men 
during  the  last  two  years  to  go  to  Richmond, 
and  not  one  of  them  has  got  there  yet.” 

Some  of  those  passes  had  been  used  and  their 
bearer  had  arrived  at  last,  having  made  the 
slowest  time  on  record  since  the  first  camel 
bore  the  pioneer  traveler  over  an  Oriental  des- 
ert. The  queen  city  of  the  South  had  fallen. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  159 


The  story  of  the  great  nation  that  had  hovered 
upon  the  horizon  of  our  visions  had  been  written 
out  to  its  last  sorrowful  word. 

On  the  morning  of  Sunday,  April  2,  in  the 
holy  calm  of  St.  Paul’s  Church,  we  had  as- 
sembled to  ask  the  great  Father  of  Heaven  and 
earth  to  guard  our  loved  ones  and  give  victory 
to  the  cause  so  dear  to  us.  Suddenly  the  glori- 
ous sunlight  was  dimmed  by  the  heavy  cloud 
of  disappointment,  and  the  peace  of  God  was 
broken  by  the  deep-voiced  bells  tolling  the 
death-knell  of  our  hopes. 

There  was  mad  haste  to  flee  from  the  doomed 
city.  President  Davis  and  his  Cabinet  officers 
were  in  the  church,  and  to  them  the  news  first 
came.  They  hurried  to  the  State  House  to  se- 
cure the  Confederate  archives  and  retreat  with 
them  to  some  place  of  safety. 

Fear  and  dread  fell  over  us  all.  We  were 
cut  off  from  our  friends  and  communication 
with  them  was  impossible.  Our  soldiers  might 
have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy — we 
knew  not.  They  might  have  poured  out  their 
life-blood  on  the  battlefield — we  knew  not.  In 
our  helpless  deserted  condition  all  the  world 
seemed  to  have  been  struck  with  sudden  dark- 
ness. 

The  records  having  been  secured,  an  order 
was  issued  to  General  Ewell  to  destroy  the 


160  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


public  buildings.  The  one  thing  which  could 
intensify  the  horrors  of  our  position — fire — was 
added  to  our  calamities.  General  J.  C.  Breck- 
enridge,  our  Secretary  of  War,  with  a wider 
humanity  and  a deeper  sense  of  the  rights  of 
our  people,  tried  in  vain  to  have  this  order 
countermanded,  knowing  that  its  execution 
could  in  no  way  injure  or  impede  the  victorious 
army,  while  it  would  result  in  the  ruin  of  many 
of  our  own  people.  The  order  was  carried  out 
with  even  greater  scope  than  was  intended. 

The  Shockoe  warehouse  was  the  first  fired,  it 
being  regarded  as  a public  building  because  it 
contained  certain  stores  belonging  to  France 
and  England.  A breeze  springing  up  suddenly 
from  the  south  fanned  the  slowly  flickering 
flames  into  a blaze  and  they  mounted  upward 
until  they  enwrapped  the  whole  great  building. 
On  the  wings  of  the  wind  they  were  carried 
to  the  next  building  and  the  next,  until  when  the 
noon 'hour  struck  all  the  city  between  Seventh 
and  Fifteenth  Streets  and  Main  Street  and  the 
river  was  a heap  of  ashes. 

The  flames  leaped  from  house  to  house  in  mad 
revel.  They  stretched  out  burning  arms  on  all 
sides  and  embraced  in  deadly  clasp  the  stately 
mansions  which  had  stood  in  lofty  grandeur 
from  the  olden  days  of  colonial  pride.  Soon 
they  became  towering  masses  of  fire,  fluttering 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  161 


immense  flame-banners  against  the  wind,  and 
fell  sending  up  myriads  of  fiery  points  into  the 
air,  sparkling  like  blazing  stars  against  the 
dark  curtain  that  shut  out  the  sky. 

A stormy  sea  of  smoke  surged  over  the  town 
— here  a billow  of  blackness  of  suffocating  den- 
sity— there  a brilliant  cloud,  shot  through  with 
crimson  arrows.  The  wind  swept  on  and  the 
ocean  of  smoke  and  flame  rolled  before  it  in 
surges  of  destruction  over  the  once  fair  and 
beautiful  city  of  Richmond. 

The  terrified  cries  of  women  and  children 
arose  in  agony  above  the  roaring  of  the  flames, 
the  crashing  of  falling  buildings,  and  the  tram- 
pling of  countless  feet. 

Piles  of  furniture  and  wares  lay  in  the  streets 
as  if  the  city  had  struck  one  great  moving  day, 
when  everything  was  taken  into  the  highways 
and  left  there  to  be  trampled  to  pieces  and 
buried  in  the  mud. 

Government  stores  were  thrown  out  to  be 
destroyed,  and  a mob  gathered  around  to  catch 
the  liquors  as  they  ran  in  fiery  rivers  down  the 
streets.  Soon  intoxication  was  added  to  the 
confusion  and  uproar  which  reigned  over  all. 
The  officers  of  the  law,  terror-stricken  before 
the  reckless  crowd,  fled  for  their  lives.  The 
firemen  dared  not  make  any  effort  to  subdue 
the  flames,  fearing  an  attack  from  the  sol- 


162  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


diers  who  had  executed  the  order  to  burn  the 
buildings. 

Through  the  night  the  lire  raged,  the  sea  of 
darkness  rolled  over  the  town,  the  crowds  of 
men,  women  and  children  went  about  the  streets 
laden  with  what  plunder  they  could  rescue  from 
the  flames.  The  drunken  rabble  shattered  the 
plate-glass  windows  of  the  stores  and  wrecked 
everything  upon  which  they  could  seize.  The 
populace  had  become  a frenzied  mob,  and  the 
kingdom  of  Satan  seemed  to  have  been  trans- 
ferred to  the  streets  of  Eichmond. 

The  fire  revealed  many  things  which  I should 
like  never  to  have  seen  and,  having  seen,  would 
fain  forget. 

The  most  revolting  revelation  was  the  amount 
of  provisions,  shoes  and  clothing  which  had 
been  accumulated  by  the  speculators  who  hov- 
ered like  vultures  over  the  scene  of  death  and 
desolation.  Taking  advantage  of  their  posses- 
sion of  money  and  lack  of  both  patriotism  and 
humanity,  they  had,  by  an  early  corner  in  the 
market  and  by  successful  blockade  running, 
bought  up  all  the  available  supplies  with  an 
eye  to  future  gain,  while  our  soldiers  and  wom- 
en and  children  were  absolutely  in  rags,  bare- 
foot and  starving.  Not  even  war,  with  its  hor- 
rors and  helplessness,  can  divert  such  harpies 
from  their  accustomed  methods  of  accumulating 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  163 


wealth  at  the  expense  of  those  who  have  spent 
their  lives  in  less  self-seeking  ways. 

About  nine  o’clock  Monday  morning  a series 
of  terrific  explosions  startled  our  ears,  inured 
as  they  were  to  every  variety  of  painful  sounds. 
Every  window  in  our  house  was  shattered  and 
the  old  plate-glass  mirrors  built  into  the  walls 
were  broken.  We  felt  as  if  called  upon  to  under- 
go a bombardment,  in  addition  to  our  other  mis- 
fortunes, but  it  was  soon  ascertained  that  the 
explosions  were  from  the  Government  arsenal 
and  laboratory,  now  caught  by  the  flames.  Fort 
Darling  and  the  rams  were  blown  up. 

Every  bank  was  destroyed,  the  flour-mills  had 
caught  fire,  the  War  Department  was  in  ruins, 
the  offices  of  the  Enquirer  and  Dispatch  had 
been  reduced  to  ashes,  the  County  Court-House, 
the  American  Hotel,  and  most  of  the  finest 
stores  of  the  city  were  ruined.  The  Presbyte- 
rian Church  had  escaped.  The  flames  had 
passed  by  Libby  Prison,  as  if  even  fire  realized 
that  it  could  not  add  to  the  horrors  of  the 
gloomy  place. 

While  the  flames  were  raging  the  colored 
troops  of  General  Weitzel,  who  had  been  sta- 
tioned on  the  north  side  of  the  James  a few 
miles  from  Eichmond,  entered  the  city.  As  I 
saw  their  black  faces  shining  through  the  gloom 
of  the  smoke-shrouded  town  I could  not  help 


164  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


thinking  that  they  added  the  one  feature  needed, 
if  any  there  were,  to  complete  the  demoniacal 
character  of  the  scene.  They  were  the  first 
colored  troops  I had  ever  seen,  and  the  weird 
effect  produced  by  their  black  faces  in  that  in- 
fernal environment  was  indelibly  impressed 
upon  my  mind. 

General  Weitzel  sent  Major  E.  E.  Graves,  of 
his  staff,  and  Major  A.  H.  Stevens,  of  the 
Fourth  Massachusetts  Cavalry,  at  the  head  of 
a hundred  mounted  men,  to  reconnoiter  the 
Eichmond  roads  and  works.  At  the  fortifica- 
tions beyond  the  junction  of  the  Osborne  turn- 
pike and  New  Market  road  they  were  met  by  a 
flag  of  truce  waved  from  a dilapidated,  old-fash- 
ioned carriage  drawn  by  a pair  of  skeleton-like 
horses.  The  truce  party  consisted  of  the  Mayor 
of  Eichmond,  Colonel  Mayo ; Judge  Meredith,  of 
the  Supreme  Court;  Mr.  James  Lyons,  one  of 
our  most  eminent  lawyers,  and  a fourth,  whom 
I do  not  now  recall. 

The  carriage  was  probably  in  the  early  part 
of  the  century  what  might  have  been  called,  if 
the  modern  classic  style  of  phraseology  had 
prevailed  at  that  time,  a “tony  rig.”  At  the 
period  of  which  I write  it  had  made  so  many 
journeys  over  the  famous  Virginia  roads  that 
it  had  become  a sepulchral  wreck  of  its  former 
self. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  165 


There  may  have  been  a time  when  the  remi- 
niscences of  animals  that  dragged  out  from  the 
burning  Capital  the  ruins  of  the  stately  chariot 
were  a span  of  gay  and  gallant  steeds,  arching 
their  necks  in  graceful  pride,  champing  their 
bits  in  scorn  of  the  idea  that  harness  made  by 
man  could  trammel  their  lofty  spirits,  pawing 
the  earth  in  disdain  of  its  commonplace  coarse- 
ness. If  so,  the  lapse  of  years  and  an  extended 
term  of  Confederate  fare  had  reduced  those 
noble  coursers  to  shambling  memories. 

What  of  it?  The  chariot  of  state  might  be 
the  wreck  of  former  grandeur,  the  horses  might 
be  the  dimmest  of  recollections,  but  was  not  Mr. 
Lyons  still  Mr.  Lyons — in  all  circumstances,  the 
most  dignified  member  of  Old  Dominion  aris- 
tocracy? The  Mayor  turned  over  the  keys  of 
the  city  and  in  recognition  of  the  pre-eminence 
of  Mr.  Lyons,  deputed  to  him  the  performance 
of  further  ceremonies.  With  cold  and  stately 
formality  Mr.  Lyons  “had  the  honor”  to  intro- 
duce his  companions  and  to  present  a paper  on 
which  was  inscribed : 

“It  is  proper  to  formally  surrender  to  the  Federal 
authorities  the  City  of  Richmond,  hitherto  Capital  of 
the  Confederate  States  of  America,  and  the  defenses 
protecting  it.” 

Major  Stevens  courteously  accepted  the  sur- 
render on  behalf  of  his  Commanding  General, 


166  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


to  whom  the  document  was  transmitted,  and 
proceeded  to  reduce  the  newly  acquired  prop- 
erty to  possession  by  fighting  the  flames  which 
disputed  ownership  with  him. 

Having  utilized  to  good  effect  what  little  rem- 
nant of  the  fire  department  he  could  find,  Major 
Stevens  ordered  the  Stars  and  Stripes  to  be 
raised  over  the  Capitol.  Two  soldiers  of  the 
Fourth  Massachusetts  Cavalry,  one  from  Com- 
pany E and  one  from  Company  H,  mounted  to 
the  summit  of  the  Capitol,  and  in  a few  mo- 
ments, for  the  first  time  in  more  than  four  years, 
the  National  Flag  fluttered  unmolested  in  the 
breezes  of  the  South.  The  stars  of  the  Union 
were  saluted,  while  our  “warrior’s  Banner  took 
its  flight  to  meet  the  warrior’s  soul.” 

That  flag  which  almost  a century  before  had 
risen  from  the  clouds  of  war,  like  a star  gleam- 
ing out  through  the  darkness  of  a stormy  night, 
with  its  design  accredited  to  both  Washington 
and  John  Adams,  was  raised  over  Virginia  by 
Massachusetts,  in  place  of  the  one  whose  kin- 
ship and  likeness  to  the  old  banner  had  never 
been  entirely  destroyed. 

In  March,  1861,  the  Confederate  Congress 
adopted  the  Stars  and  Bars — three  horizontal 
bars  of  equal  width,  the  middle  one  white,  the 
others  red,  with  a blue  union  of  nine  stars  in  a 
circle.  This  was  so  like  the  National  Flag  as 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  167 


to  cause  confusion.  In  1863  this  flag  was 
replaced  by  a banner  with  a white  field,  hav- 
ing the  battle-flag  (a  red  field  charged  with 
a blue  saltier  on  which  were  thirteen  stars) 
for  a union.  It  was  feared  that  this  might 
be  mistaken  for  a flag  of  truce,  and  was 
changed  by  covering  the  outer  half  of  the 
field  with  a vertical  red  bar.  This  was  finally 
adopted  as  the  flag  of  the  Confederate  States 
of  America. 

Richmond  will  testify  that  the  soldiers  of 
Massachusetts  were  worthy  of  the  honor  of  first 
raising  the  United  States  flag  over  the  Capitol 
of  the  Confederacy,  and  will  also  bear  witness  to 
the  unvarying  courtesy  of  Major  Stevens  and 
the  fidelity  with  which  he  kept  his  trust. 

The  day  after  the  fire  there  was  a rap  at  our 
door.  The  servants  had  all  run  away.  The 
city  was  full  of  northern  troops,  and  my  en- 
vironment had  not  taught  me  to  love  them. 
With  my  baby  on  my  arm  I answered  the  knock, 
opened  the  door  and  looked  up  at  a tall,  gaunt, 
sad-faced  man  in  ill  fitting  clothes,  who  asked 
with  the  accent  of  the  North: 

“Is  this  George  Pickett’s  place?” 

“This  is  General  Pickett’s  home,  sir,”  I re- 
plied, “but  he  is  not  here.” 

“I  know  that,  ma’am,  I know  where  George 
Pickett  is,”  he  answered,  “but  I just  wanted  to 


168  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


see  the  place.  Down  in  old  Quincy,  Illinois,  where 
I used  to  hear  George  Pickett  whistle  the  songs 
of  Virginia  in  his  bird-like  notes,  I have  heard 
him  describe  his  home  till  in  spirit  I have  been 
here  many  a time.  I have  smelled  the  multi- 
flora roses  and  the  Lady  Bankshire  roses  and 
the  golden  cluster  roses  and  those  great  cabbage 
roses.  I have  seen  the  borders  of  hyacinths  in 
the  springtime  and  the  lilies-of-the-valley  bloom- 
ing in  the  chimney  corner,  the  beds  of  violets, 
the  rows  of  beehives  and  the  lily-beds  that  the 
bees  knew  were  theirs,  had  been  planted  just 
for  them.  I have  stood  under  the  arbor  and 
gathered  those  strange  green  looking  grapes 
that  are  like  the  Virginia  aristocracy,  growing 
each  one  on  its  own  individual  stem.  I think 
he  called  them  scuppernongs.  I have  sat  on 
that  back  porch  and  listened  to  the  music  as  his 
sister  Virginia,  of  whom  he  was  so  proud,  sang 
in  that  glorious  voice  he  told  me  about,  and  I 
have  swung  in  this  old  swing  here  while  the 
moon  and  I watched  and  waited  for  the  old  cat 
to  die.  So  I wanted  to  see  the  place.” 

I,  listening,  wondered  who  he  could  be,  till  he 
finished  and  then  he  said: 

‘‘I  am  Abraham  Lincoln.” 

“The  President!”  I gasped. 

“No — no, — just  Abraham  Lincoln;  George 
Pickett’s  old  friend.” 


ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  169 


“I  am  George  Pickett’s  wife  and  this  is  his 
baby,”  was  all  I could  say. 

The  baby  reached  out  bis  arms  and  Mr.  Lin- 
coln took  him,  a look  of  tenderness  almost  divine 
glorifying*  that  sad  face.  I have  never  seen 
that  expression  on  any  other  face.  My  little 
one  opened  bis  mouth  and  insisted  upon  giv- 
ing bis  father’s  friend  a dewy  baby  kiss.  As 
be  banded  my  baby  back  to  me  Mr.  Lincoln 
shook  bis  long  band  at  him  and  said : 

“Tell  yonr  father,  the  rascal,  that  I could 
almost  forgive  him  anything  for  the  sake  of 
those  bright  eyes  and  that  baby  kiss.” 

The  tones  of  bis  deep  voice  touched  all  the 
chords  of  life  to  music,  and  I marveled  no  more 
at  my  Soldier’s  love  for  him  even  through  all 
the  bitterness  of  the  years.  He  turned  and 
went  down  the  steps  and  out  of  my  life  forever, 
but  in  my  memory  that  wonderful  voice,  those 
intensely  human  eyes,  that  strong,  sad,  tender 
face  have  a perpetual  abiding  place.  He  seemed 
to  have  a cast  in  bis  eye  that  reminded  me  of 
the  glass  eye  of  Mr.  Davis,  but  as  no  one  has 
ever  mentioned  it  in  describing  him  it  may  be 
that  bis  likeness  to  Jefferson  Davis  made  me 
think  so,  yet  I always  see  that  look  in  bis 
pictures. 

Among  my  treasured  possessions  are  some 
old  letters,  written  by  Mr.  Lincoln  when  prac- 


170  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


ticing  law  in  Springfield,  to  George  Pickett,  then 
a cadet  at  West  Point,  where  he  was  placed  at 
the  request  of  Mr.  Lincoln.  The  homely  and 
humorous  philosophy  of  these  letters,  the  hon- 
esty which  breathes  through  them,  the  cheerful 
outlook  upon  life,  and  the  ready  sympathy  of 
the  experienced  professional  man  with  the  boy 
just  on  the  threshold  of  life,  looking  down  the 
vista  of  the  future  to  the  flashing  of  swords  and 
the  thunder  of  guns,  all  bring  him  before  me 
as  a friend. 

I look  beyond  the  description  he  once  gave 
of  himself,  “Height,  six  feet,  four  inches,  nearly ; 
lean  in  flesh,  weighing  on  an  average  one  hun- 
dred and  eighty  pounds ; dark  complexion,  with 
coarse  black  hair  and  gray  eyes.” 

A free-hand  sketch  like  that  is  easy,  but  my 
memory  fills  the  outlines  with  the  subtle  beauty 
of  soul,  the  sunny  view  of  life,  the  deep,  tender 
sympathy  that  made  up  a face  of  infinite  charm 
which  puzzled  all  artists  but  revealed  itself  to 
the  intuitions  of  a child,  causing  the  babe  to 
raise  its  little  arms  to  be  taken  up  and  its  lips 
to  he  kissed. 

The  ways  of  Abraham  Lincoln  and  George 
Pickett  were  widely  separated  for  a time,  but 
were  never  so  far  apart  that  the  old  love 
had  not  full  sway.  I marveled  over  it  once, 
but  after  my  own  picture  of  the  man  was  filled 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  171 


out  I wondered  no  more.  I think  no  one  who 
knew  and  loved  Lincoln  could  he  estranged 
from  him,  whatever  tides  of  political  hostility 
might  roll  between. 

One  afternoon,  as  we  were  reading  “Les  Mis- 
erables”  upon  the  veranda,  our  attention  was 
distracted  by  a number  of  soldiers  below  who 
were  discussing  the  Emancipation  Proclama- 
tion and  saying  all  manner  of  discrediting 
things  about  Mr.  Lincoln,  censuring  him  as  ig- 
norant and  despotic,  and  bringing  other  un- 
founded accusations  against  him.  After  they 
were  gone  my  Soldier  walked  up  and  down  the 
veranda,  whistling  ‘When  other  friends  are 
’round  thee.”  Presently,  coming  back,  sitting 
beside  me  and  taking  hold  of  my  hand,  he  said : 

“Years  ago  there  was  a very  lonesome,  dis- 
pirited, disappointed,  heart-broken  boy  away  off 
in  Quincy,  Illinois.  He  had  received  letters, 
not  in  envelopes  as  they  come  now,  for  that  was 
a long  time  ago  when  the  letter  made  its  own 
envelope ; paper  was  scarcer  then  than  now,  and 
one  had  to  be  careful  in  opening  the  letter.  It 
was  fastened  with  sealing  wax  and  in  breaking 
the  wax  it  often  happened  that  a word  was 
broken  off.  He  had  opened  three  of  those  let- 
ters and  found  that  four  of  his  cousins  had  been 
appointed  to  West  Point,  three  from  Virginia 
and  one  from  Kentucky,  and  he  was  compelled 


172  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


to  study  law,  a subject  which  he  did  not  like,  but 
which  his  family  did  and  had  chosen  for  him. 
His  uncle  with  whom  he  was  studying  had  no 
sympathy  with  his  ambition  to  be  a soldier  and 
his  disappointment  in  not  being  of  the  fortunate 
number. 

“That  night  when  this  lonesome  boy  was  lean- 
ing on  the  gate  still  brooding  over  his  disap- 
pointment but  obediently  trying  to  memorize  the 
Pule  in  Shelley’s  Case  a tall  man,  for  whom  he 
was  waiting,  came  up  the  street  and  asked, 
‘What  is  the  matter?  Holes  in  your  pocket  and 
your  marbles  and  knife  all  dropped  out?’  ‘Yes,’ 
said  the  boy,  ‘I  have  lost  my  knife  and  my  mar- 
bles and  there  are  big  holes  in  my  pockets.’ 
‘Well,”  replied  the  man,  ‘you  must  have  strong 
pockets  like  mine.  I have  marbles  and  a knife 
but  my  pockets  are  so  strong  now  that  they  do 
not  make  holes  in  them,  as  they  used  to  do. 
Come,  sit  down  on  the  grass  and  let’s  have  a 
game  of  mumble-de-peg.’  The  man  played  so 
badly  on  purpose  that  it  was  he  who  had  to 
mumble  the  peg,  but  his  playmate  insisted  that 
he  should  mumble  it.  ‘No,  you  have  been  mum- 
bling the  peg  all  day,  my  boy.  I want  to  keep 
you  from  mumbling  pegs.’ 

“The  next  morning  the  boy  was  awakened 
by  a handful  of  gravel  thrown  against  the  win- 
dow. He  looked  out  and  saw  his  friend  with 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  173 


saddle-bags  in  his  hand.  ‘Going  up  the  road 
a piece,’  he  called  out.  It  took  the  man  a long 
time  to  go  up  the  road  and  the  boy  waited  for 
him  week  after  week  to  come  down  the  road. 
After  a long  time  there  came  instead  a letter 
from  which  the  following  is  an  extract : 

I never  encourage  deceit,  and  falsehood,  especial- 
ly if  you  have  got  a bad  memory,  is  the  worst  enemy 
a fellow  can  have.  The  fact  is,  truth  is  your  truest 
friend,  no  matter  what  the  circumstances  are.  Not- 
withstanding this  copy-book  preamble,  my  boy,  I am 
inclined  to  suggest  a little  prudence  on  your  part. 
You  see  I have  a congenital  aversion  to  failure,  and 
the  sudden  announcement  to  your  Uncle  Andrew  of 
the  success  of  your  “lamp-rubbing”  might  possibly 
prevent  your  passing  the  severe  physical  examination 
to  which  you  will  be  subjected  in  order  to  enter  the 
Military  Academy.  I should  like  to  have  a perfect 
soldier  credited  to  dear  old  Illinois — no  broken  bones, 
scalp  wounds,  etc.  So  I think  perhaps  it  might  be 
wise  to  hand  this  letter  from  me  in  to  your  good  uncle 
through  his  room-window  after  he  has  had  a comfort- 
able dinner,  and  watch  its  effect  from  the  top  of  the 
pigeon-house. 

“Inclosed  in  this  letter  was  one  from  Mr.  John 
G.  Stuart,  Eepresentative  in  Congress  of  the 
Third  Illinois  District,  together  with  an  ap- 
pointment to  West  Point.” 


174  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


My  Soldier  was  silent  for  a moment,  then  con- 
tinued : 

“That  man  is  the  one  we  have  just  heard 
maligned;  the  man  to  whom  I,  your  Soldier, 
owes  his  profession,  the  one  to  whom  he  is  in- 
debted for  the  garlands  that  were  hung  around 
his  horse  all  along  the  road  as  he  came  from 
Gettysburg,  the  one  whose  honesty  and  courage 
enabled  your  Soldier  to  defy  the  British  fleet  at 
San  Juan,  and  to  whom  he  owes  the  gratitude  of 
the  people  of  Petersburg  who  say  that  he  saved 
their  town — that  man  was  Abraham  Lincoln.” 

Months  afterward,  when  the  awful  news  of 
Lincoln’s  death  came  to  us,  my  Soldier  ex- 
claimed : 

“My  God ! My  God ! The  South  has  lost  her 
best  friend  and  protector  in  this,  her  direst  hour 
of  need !” 


XX 


SUSPENSE 

MY  Soldier  left  me  in  Richmond  when  he 
went  away  to  fight  the  last  battles  of 
the  war,  telling  me  to  stay  until  he  re- 
turned or  sent  for  me.  “Now,  remember,  I shall 
surely  come  back/’  he  said.  So,  like  Casabi- 
anca,  I waited,  and  not  even  “the  flames  that  lit 
the  battle’s  wreck”  should  frighten  me  away. 

General  Breckenridge,  our  Secretary  of  War, 
had,  in  his  thoughtfulness,  offered  me  an 
opportunity  of  leaving  the  Confederate  Capital, 
but  remembering  that  my  Soldier  had  left  me 
there  I obediently  determined  to  remain  until 
he  came  or  sent  for  me.  Thanking  the  Secre- 
tary I said : 

“I  cannot  go  until  the  voice  that  bade  me  stay 
calls  me.” 

The  days  were  filled  with  fear  and  anguish 
unspeakable.  The  clock  struck  only  midnight 
hours  for  me. 

Rumors  of  the  death  of  my  Soldier  were 


175 


176  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


credited  (I  saw  by  the  look  on  everybody’s 
face,  though  no  word  was  said),  and  I would 
not  ask  a question  nor  let  anybody  speak  to  me 
of  him  lest  an  effort  be  made  to  prepare  me  for 
the  sad  tidings.  The  last  letter  I had  received 
from  him  was  dated  the  30th  of  March,  at 
Hatcher’s  Eun,  the  extreme  right  of  the  Con- 
federate line,  most  of  the  letter  being  written 
in  Chinook,  that  I only  might  understand.  It 
contained  the  following  paragraph: 

Heavy  rains ; roads  and  streams  almost  impassable. 
While  General  Lee  was  holding  a conference  with  his 
chiefs  this  morning  a message  came  from  General 
Fitz  Lee,  stating  that  through  a prisoner  he  had 
learned  that  the  Federal  cavalry,  fifteen  thousand 
strong,  supported  by  heavy  infantry,  were  at  or  near 
Dinwiddie  Court-House.  This  decided  the  General’s 
plans,  and  he  has  placed  General  Fitz  Lee  in  com- 
mand of  the  whole  cavalry,  Rosser’s,  W.  H.  F.  Lee’s 
and  his  own,  with  orders  to  march  upon  Five  Forks. 
I am  to  support  with  my  small  force  of  artillery  and 
infantry  this  movement  and  I take  command  of  the 
whole  force. 

He  wrote  in  full  faith  of  a short  separation, 
saying  that  all  would  be  well,  that  he  would 
surely  return,  imploring  me  not  to  listen  to  or 
credit  any  rumors  to  the  contrary,  and  urging 
me  in  an  added  line  to  be  brave  and  of  good 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  177 


cheer — to  keep  up  a “skookum  turn- turn.”  (Chi- 
nook for  “brave  heart,”  always  his  last  words  to 
me  in  parting).  This  letter  was  brought  to 
me  by  Jaccheri,  a daring,  fearless  Italian  in 
my  Soldier’s  employ  as  headquarters  postmas- 
ter. He  was  sagacious  and  loyal,  perfectly 
devoted  to  the  General  and  his  cause,  and  was 
trusted  with  letters  of  the  strictest  confidence 
and  greatest  importance  all  through  the  war. 

As  I said  before,  our  people  were  on  the 
verge  of  starvation.  For  weeks  before  we  left 
camp  the  army  had  been  living  on  rations  of 
com  and  beans,  with  “seasonings”  of  meat.  The 
game  had  been  trapped  and  killed  throughout 
the  whole  country,  and  my  breakfast  that  morn- 
ing had  consisted  of  a few  beans  cooked  in 
water,  no  salt,  for  salt  had  long  been  a luxury 
in  the  Confederacy.  All  the  old  smokehouses 
had  been  moved,  that  the  earth  might  be  dug 
up  and  pulled  down  to  recover  the  salt  which 
in  the  many  years  it  had  absorbed. 

John  Theophelas,  my  dear  little  brother,  nine 
years  old,  was  a great  comfort  to  me  in  these 
days  of  trial.  He  had  just  brought  my  beans 
and  was  lovingly  coaxing  me  to  eat  them  when 
Jaccheri  came,  and  a plate  was  filled  for  him. 
After  Jaccheri  had  finished  his  meager  break- 
fast, seasoned  with  his  adventures  on  the  road, 
swimming  the  river  at  one  place  carrying  his 


178  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


clothes  in  a bundle  on  his  head,  he  said  he  must 
go.  I added  a few  lines  to  my  diary,  which  I 
always  kept  for  my  Soldier,  and  gave  it  to  our 
faithful  letter-carrier  to  take  back  to  him. 

“Ina  da  days  to  come,”  said  Jaccheri  in  his 
soft  Italian  voice  “ina  all  lands,  no  matter, 
mucha  people,  mucha  gloly,  nadie  money,  no 
matter,  you  find  Jaccheri  here — and  here — ” 
first  putting  his  hand  over  his  heart  and  then 
drawing  from  his  boot  and  gracefully  brandish- 
ing a shining  blade.  “Gooda-bye.” 

At  the  door  he  turned  back,  untied  his  cravat, 
and  wiggled  out  five  pieces  of  money,  three  gold 
dollars  and  two  ninepences.  He  walked  over 
on  tiptoe  to  where  the  baby  was  sleeping, 
crossed  himself  and,  kneeling  by  the  cradle, 
slipped  into  baby’s  little  closed  hand  two  of  the 
gold  dollars  and  around  his  neck  a much  worn 
and  soiled  scapula. 

“Da  mon — Confed — noa  mucha  good,  noa  now 
mucha  accountable — you  mighta  want  some; 
want  her  vely  bad  before  you  nota  get  her. 
Gooda-bye,  some  moa.” 

Dear,  faithful  old  Jaccheri,  he  would  take  no 
refusal,  so  I let  baby  keep  the  money.  I was 
kneeling  by  the  cradle  crying  and  praying  for 
my  Soldier  and  thanking  God  that  he  had  so 
good  a friend  as  this  poor  camp  postman,  when 
the  door  opened  softly  and  Jaccheri  looked  in. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  179 


“I  know  you  cly  and  so  I come  back  to  say 
gooda-bye  some  moa,  and  God  bless.” 

I was  reading  aloud  lovingly  and  reverently 
the  torn  words  on  the  ragged  red-flannel  scap- 
ula which  Jaccheri  had  given  to  baby:  “Cease, 
the  heart  of  Jesus  is  with  you,”  when  the  baby 
opened  his  sweet  eyes  and  crowed  over  the  little 
fortune  which  had  come  to  him  in  his  dreams, 
the  first  gold  he  had  ever  seen.  Just  then  my 
little  brother,  who  had  gone  downstairs  with 
Jaccheri,  came  rushing  back,  his  eyes  wide  open, 
all  excitement,  exclaiming: 

“Sister!  Sister!  There’s  a Yankee  down- 
stairs ! Come  to  see  you,  but  don’t  you  go ; hide, 
hide,  sister ! I’ll  stand  by  the  door  and  he  dare- 
sent  pass  by  me.  Quick,  sister,  hide!  He  said 
that  he  was  one  of  brother  George’s  friends,  but 
I believe  he  has  killed  brother  George,  and  now 
wants  to  kill  you !” 

In  the  light  of  the  present  day  the  terror  of 
the  child  seems  almost  exaggerated,  but  in  those 
days  southern  nurses  kept  children  docile  by 
warning  them  that  the  Yankees  would  get  them 
if  they  did  not  behave,  and  the  whole  environ- 
ment of  childhood  intensified  the  fear  thus  in- 
stilled. 

“Oh,  no,  no,  my  child,”  I said  reassuringly, 
trying  to  soothe  and  calm  him.  “No,  no;  don’t 
be  such  a little  coward,  dear.  If  he  is  one  of 


180  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


your  brother  George’s  friends  he  is  mine,  too, 
and  he  would  not  hurt  me.  I am  not  in  the 
least  afraid,  and  I will  go  down  at  once  and 
see  him.” 

“Please  don’t  go,  sister,  you  might  be  killed 
and  I promised  brother  George  to  take  care  of 
you.” 

“That’s  a sweet  boy;  take  care  of  the  baby,” 
I said  and,  kissing  them  both,  closed  the  door 
behind  me. 

As  I entered  the  parlor  a tall,  thin  gentleman 
with  the  sweetest  of  smiles  and  the  kindest  of 
voices,  dressed  in  the  uniform  of  a United  States 
surgeon,  arose  and  said  as  he  bowed,  holding 
his  hat  against  his  breast,  thus  avoiding  offering 
me  his  hand: 

“My  name  is  George  Suckley,  madam.  I am 
one  of  George  Pickett’s  friends,  although,  as 
soldiers,  we  have  been  enemies  in  the  field  for 
more  than  three  years.  That,  however,  does  not 
interfere  with  us  when  we  are  not  on  duty.  I 
have  heard  that  you  southern  women  are  very 
bitter,  and  I did  not  know  how  you,  his  wife — 
you  are  Pickett’s  wife,  are  you  not,  madam? — 
would  take  a visit  from  me,  but  I came,  never- 
theless. Knowing  and  loving  George  Pickett  as 
I do,  I knew  he  would  appreciate  my  motive  in 
coming.” 

“Your  name  is  a very  familiar  one,  Dr.  Suck- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  181 


ley,”  I said.  “I  have  often  heard  the  General 
speak  of  you,  and  recall  many  stories  of  your 
adventures — your  love  for  bugs  and  beetles,  for 
all  natural  history,  in  fact.”  I wished  him  to 
know  that  I remembered  him  and  had  not  mis- 
taken him  for  another,  and  also  that  I had 
reason  to  wonder  at  seeing  him  in  his  pres- 
ent position.  “He  spoke  of  your  having  been 
with  him  at  Fort  Bellingham  Bay,  and  know- 
ing how  you  felt  when  he  left  the  old  army, 
he  wondered  at  your  remaining  and  going  to  the 
front.” 

“I  am  a surgeon  in  Grant’s  army,”  said  Dr. 
Suckley,  proudly,  ignoring  and,  by  his  manner, 
almost  resenting  my  reference  to  his  former 
sympathy  with  the  South.  “I  love  Pickett,  and 
came,  as  he  would  have  come  had  our  positions 
been  reversed,  to  see  his  wife  and  offer  her  my 
services.” 

I thanked  this  kind-hearted  gentleman  and 
distinguished  officer,  but  was  too  bitter  to  accept 
the  smallest  courtesy  at  his  hands,  even  in  my 
husband’s  name  and  offered  for  love’s  sake — so 
bitter  that  suffering  was  preferable  to  such 
obligation.  He  bowed  and  was  going,  when  I 
said: 

“Doctor,  is  there  any  news  of  the  army? — 
ours,  I mean.” 

“The  war  is  over,  madam.  You  have  my 


182  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


address,  if  yon  should  change  your  mind  and 
will  show  me  how  I can  serve  you.” 

He  bowed  and  left.  He,  too,  had  heard  that 
my  Soldier  had  been  killed,  and  believed  it,  and 
I hated  him  worse  because  of  his  belief. 

On  the  evening  of  the  3d  of  April  I was  walk- 
ing the  floor.  Baby  was  asleep  and  my  little 
brother  was  trotting  behind  me,  when  I heard 
from  the  street: 

“Grand  victory  at  Five  Forks ! Pickett  killed 
and  his  whole  division  captured.” 

It  seemed  very  strange  to  me  that  in  the 
streets  of  Richmond,  his  old  home,  the  Capital 
of  the  Confederacy,  the  death  of  Pickett  and  the 
capture  of  his  whole  division  should  be  heralded 
as  a “grand  victory.”  How  great  a change  had 
come  in  so  short  a time!  Even  the  newsboys 
had  apparently  gone  over  to  the  enemy. 

“ ’Tisn’t  so,  sister,  ’tisn’t  so ! Don’t  you  be- 
lieve him !”  said  my  little  brother,  catching  my 
dress  and  shaking  it.  Then  running  to  the  win- 
dow in  his  excitement,  he  called  out : 

“Hush,  sir ; hush ! hush  this  minute,  hallooing 
your  big  stories  out  loud  and  scaring  everybody 
to  death.  I’d  like  to  stick  those  five  forks 
through  your  old  black  gizzard,  for  you  haven’t 
got  any  heart,  I know.  Ain’t  you  ashamed  of 
yourself,  you  good-for-nothing  old  scalawag, 
you!  There  ain’t  a word  of  truth  in  brother 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  183 


George  being  killed,  and  yon  know  it,  you  old 
thing!  I’ll  go  down  and  smash  his  month  for 
him  and  kick  him  to  death  for  scaring  you  so,  my 
poor  sister,  ’deed  I would;  but  it  isn’t  so,  my 
sister.  You  trust  in  the  Lord.  I know  brother 
George  is  not  killed,  for  he  said  he  wouldn’t  get 
killed.” 

“No,  it  is  not  so.  You  are  right,  my  darling. 
Your  brother  George  is  not  killed,”  I said. 
“Yes,  he  will  come  back ! he  will  come  back ! He 
said  he  would,  and  he  will.” 

Thus  I spoke  and  believed,  for  my  Soldier 
had  never  broken  a promise.  The  days  came 
and  the  days  went  and  the  sun  rose  each  morn- 
ing with  an  auroral  glow  of  hope  in  its  golden 
heart.  When  twilight  drifted  out  from  the 
forest  shadows,  the  sun  went  down  in  a sea  of 
crimson  fire  that  burned  out  my  dream  of  hap- 
piness. Then  night  fell  and  the  world  and  my 
heart  were  wrapped  in  darkness. 


XXI 


“whoa,  lucy” 

ONE  morning  I had  mechanically  dressed 
baby  George  and  had  taken  him  to  the 
window  to  hear  the  spring  sounds  and 
breathe  the  spring  balm  and  catch  the  sunshine’s 
dripping  gold  wreathing  the  top  of  the  quiver- 
ing blossoms  of  the  magnolia  and  tulip-trees. 

It  was  the  time  when  the  orchestra  of  the 
year  is  in  perfect  accord,  when  all  the  world  is 
vocal,  when  the  birds  sing  of  love,  the  buds  and 
blossoms  of  joy,  the  grains  and  grasses  of  hope 
and  faith,  and  when  each  rustle  of  wind  makes 
a chime  of  vital  resonance. 

Through  the  quiver  and  curl  of  leaves  and 
perfume  of  flowers  and  soft  undertone  of  dawn- 
winds  came  the  words,  “Whoa,  Lucy;  whoa, 
little  girl !” 

Oh,  those  tones,  those  words,  that  voice 
thrilled  my  heart  so  that  I wonder  it  did  not 
burst  from  very  gladness!  Such  joy,  such 
gratitude  as  flooded  my  soul  only  the  Giver  of 

184 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  185 


all  good  can  know ! All  the  privation  and 
starvation  and  blood-stains  of  the  past  four 
years,  all  the  woes  and  trials,  griefs  and  fears, 
of  those  last  dreadful  days  were  swept  away 
by  those  blessed,  precious  words,  “Whoa, 
Lucy!”  spoken  in  my  husband’s  tender  tones 
to  his  horse. 

I could  not  wait  to  go  down  stairs  in  the 
regular  way,  it  was  too  slow.  So  I slid  down 
the  bannisters  with  my  baby  in  my  arms  and 
ran  out  upon  the  porch  just  as  my  Soldier  came 
around  the  rosebushes  that  Mr.  Lincoln  had 
described,  and  which  had  just  budded  out.  Baby 
and  I wTere  both  in  my  Soldier’s  arms  almost 
before  Lucy  had  been  given  into  the  hands  of 
the  hostler.  I do  not  know  how  to  describe  the 
peace,  the  bliss  of  that  moment — it  is  too  deep 
and  too  sacred  to  be  translated  into  words.  I 
think  that  it  is  akin  to  the  feeling  that  will  come 
to  me  in  the  hereafter,  when  I have  gone  through 
all  these  dark  days  of  privation  and  of  starva- 
tion of  heart  and  soul  here,  victorious,  and  at 
last  am  safe  within  the  golden  gates  and,  wait- 
ing, and  listening,  shall  hear  again  the  voice 
that  said,  “Whoa,  Lucy !”  here,  bidding  me  wel- 
come there  as  I welcomed  him  after  the  perilous 
waiting. 

All  through  the  war  Lucy  had  brought  my 
Soldier  to  me.  Spirited  and  beautiful,  she  had 


186  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


many  times  carried  him  twenty  miles  in  an  even- 
ing to  see  me,  sometimes  through  dangers 
greater  than  battle.  Lucy  was  not  his  war- 
horse.  She  was  the  little  thoroughbred  chest- 
nut mare  my  Soldier  always  rode  when  he  came 
to  see  me.  His  “peace-saddle,”  his  “love-pony,” 
he  called  her.  Bob,  the  General’s  valet,  would 
say,  “Dat  boss  Lucy  she  Marse  George’s  co’tin’ 
filly;  and  you  dares’nt  projick  wid  dat  hoss, 
needer,  kase  Marse  George  is  mos’  as  ’especkful 
to  her  as  ef  she  was  sho’  ’nuff  real  lady  folks.” 
The  horse  my  Soldier  used  in  battle  he  called 
“Old  Black,”  a steady,  sure-footed,  strong,  fear- 
less animal  that,  though  obedient  to  his  slightest 
touch  or  command,  allowed  no  one  else,  on  peril 
of  death,  to  mount  her. 

We  had  no  plans  for  the  future.  Our  home 
on  the  James  had  been  burned  at  the  command 
of  Butler,  so  we  decided  to  go  to  my  father’s 
plantation  on  the  Chuckatuck,  in  Nansemond 
County,  Virginia,  a difficult  thing  to  do,  for  the 
railroads  had  been  torn  up  and  no  boats  were 
running.  The  little  town  of  Chuckatuck  was 
about  thirty  miles  from  Norfolk,  diagonally  op- 
posite Newport  News,  and  after  the  evacuation 
of  Norfolk  by  the  Southern  Army  all  that  part 
of  the  country  was  neutral  ground,  being  oc- 
cupied one  day  by  Federal  troops  and  another 
by  Confederate.  Lying  thus  between  the  two 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  187 


lines,  a constant  warfare  was  carried  on  by  the 
sconts  of  both  armies,  making  it  a dangerous 
region  for  travel.  I had  not  been  home  since 
my  marriage  and  we  knew  that  the  loving  wel- 
come which  awaited  us  there  had  but  increased 
in  warmth  for  the  long  absence.  Nature’s  great 
larder,  the  Chuckatuck  Creek,  ran  but  a stone’s 
throw  from  the  back  door,  supplying  with  but 
little  labor  terrapin,  fish,  oysters  and  crabs  in 
abundance. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  after  my 
Soldier’s  return,  while  we  were  trying  to  plan 
a way  to  go,  my  little  brother  Johnny  came 
running  in,  saying: 

“Sister,  I saw  riding  by  the  door  just  now 
that  same  Yankee  who  came  here  to  see  you  the 
other  day,  and  who  said  he  was  brother  George’s 
friend.  He  knew  me  and  asked  how  you  were, 
and  how’s  the  baby.” 

“Oh,  I forgot;  I must  let  you  know  all  about 
it,”  I said,  and  told  my  Soldier  of  the  visitor 
who  had  called  before  he  came  back.  When  I 
had  finished  his  gray  eyes  filled  with  tears  and 
looking  at  the  card  he  said  tenderly : 

“Dear  old  Suekley — dear  old  fellow — so 
true !” 

I stooped  and  took  my  Soldier’s  head  in  both 
my  hands,  and  raising  it  up  gazed  searchingly 
into  his  earnest,  loving  eyes  to  see  how  he  could 


188  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


possibly  speak  so  affectionately  of  a Yankee. 

“You,  too,  have  that  same  kind  of  ‘off-duty’ 
feeling  that  this  Yankee  doctor  spoke  of  hav- 
ing,” I said  with  surprise,  and  rather  disre- 
spectfully for  me,  I am  afraid. 

“I  must  find  the  dear  old  fellow,”  my  Soldier 
said,  graciously  overlooking  my  smallness  of 
spirit.  Excusing  himself  and  taking  leave  of 
baby  and  me,  he  went  out  at  once.  In  a little 
while  he  returned,  saying: 

“It  is  very  fortunate  for  us,  little  one,  that 
I went  out  when  I did.  Suckley  goes  down  the 
river  to-morrow  to  Norfolk  in  the  surgeon-gen- 
eral’s steamer,  and  he  has  kindly  invited  us  to 
go  with  him,  dear  old  big-hearted  bug-catcher ! 
Come,  let  us  lose  no  time.  Let  us  hurry  and 
get  our  little  traps  together  and  be  ready.  We 
will  not  say  anything  about  our  plans  to  anyone 
till  to-morrow  morning,  when  we  can  announce 
our  intentions  and  say  our  good-byes  simul- 
taneously.” 

Not  only  had  this  Yankee  officer,  in  his  “off- 
duty”  feeling  for  my  Soldier,  kindly  volunteered 
to  transport  us  to  our  home,  but  to  carry  our 
trunks  and  horses,  in  fact,  all  we  had,  which, 
alas ! was  very,  very  little.  Most  of  our  worldly 
possessions — all  of  our  bridal  presents,  linen, 
library,  pictures,  silver,  furniture,  harp,  piano, 
china,  everything  except  a few  clothes — had 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  189 


been  stored  at  Kent,  Payne  & Company’s,  and 
bad  been  burned  in  the  awful  fire  the  night  of 
the  evacuation  of  Richmond. 

The  General’s  staff  had,  one  by  one,  come  in 
during  the  day  from  field  and  camp,  and  all 
breakfasted  with  us  for  the  last  time  next  morn- 
ing in  the  old  Pickett  home.  I observed  that 
each  wore  a blue  strip  tied  like  a sash  about 
the  waist.  It  was  the  old  headquarters  flag, 
they  explained,  the  flag  of  Virginia,  saved  from 
surrender  and  torn  into  strips  by  my  Soldier 
to  be  kept  in  remembrance.  By  our  door  was 
a rose-bush  full  of  white  bloom  called,  because 
of  its  hardihood  and  early  blossoming,  the 
Frost-Rose.  It  had  been  planted  by  my  Sol- 
dier’s mother.  He  broke  off  some  of  the  buds, 
put  one  in  my  hair  and  one  in  the  button-hole 
of  each  of  his  officers.  Then  for  the  first  time 
tears  came,  and  the  men  who  had  been  closer 
than  brothers  for  four  long  years  clasped  hands 
in  silence  and  parted. 

The  second  social  parting  was  sad,  too,  for 
they  had  taken  me,  “the  child  wife,”  into  their 
lives  twenty  months  before  and  they  all  . loved 
me  and  called  me  “Sister.”  Their  pride  in  each 
other  and  in  their  command,  the  perils  that  to- 
gether they  had  endured,  the  varied  experiences 
of  good  times  and  bad,  had  bound  them  together 
in  links  stronger  than  steel. 


190  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


In  spite  of  the  partings,  the  loss  of  our  cause, 
our  disappointment  and  poverty,  there  was  a 
sweet,  restful,  peaceful  feeling  of  thankfulness 
in  my  heart  and  gratitude  because  the  war  was 
over,  my  husband  had  been  spared  and  belonged 
now  only  to  me;  we  were  going  home  together, 
free  from  intrusion,  to  live  our  own  lives. 


XXII 


GEORGE  JUNIOR’S  FIRST  GREENBACK 

THE  nest  morning  Dr.  Suckley  called  in  his 
headquarters  ambulance  to  take  us  to  the 
steamer.  Just  at  the  close  of  breakfast 
we  had  announced  our  intention  of  going. 
There  was  to  be  a sudden  breaking  up  and  sever- 
ing of  old  associations.  The  staff  were  all  en 
route  to  their  respective  homes  except  the  ad- 
jutant-general, Major  Charles  Pickett.  He  and 
Mrs.  Dr.  Burwell,  the  only  brother  and  sister 
of  my  Soldier,  were  to  remain  with  their  fami- 
lies for  a time  in  the  old  Pickett  home. 

"We  said  our  sad  good-bye  in  the  great  fruit 
and  flower  garden  at  the  rear  of  the  house,  and 
passing  all  alone  through  the  large  parlors  and 
wide  halls,  crept  quietly  out  and  softly  closed 
the  door  behind  us.  The  only  evidence  of  life 
in  the  dear  old  house  as  we  looked  back  was 
Dr.  Burwell’s  big  dog  which,  having  escaped 
from  the  backyard,  howled  mournfully  within 
the  gates.  The  blinds  and  window-shades  had 


191 


192  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


not  been  opened  or  raised  since  the  Federal 
forces  had  occupied  the  city. 

As  we  boarded  the  steamer  that  morning  I 
realized  for  the  first  time  that  our  cause  was 
lost.  In  all  the  days  of  our  beautiful  married 
life  cheer  after  cheer  had  always  greeted  us 
wherever  we  had  gone — salute  from  soldier  or 
sailor,  whether  on  or  off  duty.  This  morning 
these  honors  were  replaced  by  stares  of  sur- 
prise, of  mingled  curiosity  and  hate.  Dr.  Suck- 
ley  recognized  this  feeling  at  once,  and,  with  a 
quizzical  smile  at  my  caged-tigress  expression 
of  rage,  put  his  arm  in  that  of  my  Soldier,  and 
with  a haughty  glance  at  the  men,  walked  boldly 
on  board.  I was  shown  into  the  surgeon-gen- 
eral’s stateroom,  in  which  there  were  many  evi- 
dences of  thoughtful  care  for  my  comfort.  We 
were  soon  under  way. 

My  Soldier  and  Dr.  Suckley  called  each  other 
by  their  given  names  and  laughed  and  talked 
as  cordially  as  if  they  had  loved  the  same  dear 
cause  and  fought  for  it  side  by  side.  At  the 
table  they  drank  to  each  other’s  health  and  to 
the  friends  and  memories  of  olden  times.  A 
stranger  could  not  have  told  which  of  the  two 
soldiers  had  furled  his  banner. 

They  chatted  of  Texas,  and  the  great  annex- 
ation strife  which  had  changed  the  political 
complexion  of  the  nation  away  back  in  what 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  193 


seemed  to  my  youthful  view  a remote  antiquity. 
They  talked  of  Mexico,  and  my  General  recalled 
reminiscences  of  the  battles  in  which  he  had 
fought  in  that  wonderful  tropical  country. 
They  discussed  the  wild,  free,  fresh,  novel  life 
of  the  far-off  Pacific  Coast,  the  wealth  of  the 
gold-mines  of  California,  its  luscious  and  abun- 
dant fruits,  and  the  friends  they  had  known 
there.  They  told  stories  of  the  great  Northwest, 
that  was  like  a mythologic  region  to  me,  of  the 
Chinook  Indians,  and  of  the  San  Juan  Island 
and  the  English  officers  who  had  occupied  the 
island  conjointly  with  my  Soldier.  I found  my- 
self wondering  if  it  had  been  a dream,  and  there 
had  been  no  internecine  strife. 

Just  before  reaching  City  Point,  which  is  a 
few  hours’  distance  from  Kichmond,  Dr.  Suckley 
came  up  and  told  me  that  we  were  to  stop  for 
General  Ingalls,  Grant’s  Quartermaster-Gen- 
eral, who  wished  to  come  on  board  to  pay  his 
respects,  beseeching  me,  in  his  sweet  gracious 
way,  to  be  more  cordial  with  him  than  I had 
been  with  another  of  my  Soldier’s  old  friends. 

He  turned  for  sympathy  to  my  husband,  who 
looked  imploringly  at  him  and  at  me.  Pres- 
ently my  Soldier  drew  me  to  one  side  and  whis- 
pered: 

“Suckley  voiced  my  wishes,  my  little  wife,  and 
I want  you  to  meet  my  old  friend  just  as  cor- 


194  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


dially  as  you  can.  Put  your  little  hand  in  his 
and  forget  everything  except  that  he  is  one  of 
your  husband’s  oldest  and  dearest  friends.” 

I promised  with  all  my  heart  what  he  asked, 
and  really  intended  to  keep  my  word.  I loved 
to  do  everything  he  bade  me.  I liked  him  to 
make  things  hard  for  me  sometimes,  that  I 
might  show  him  how  sincere  and  loving  my 
obedience  was.  But  when  General  Ingalls  came 
on  board,  was  given  a salute  and  received,  as 
became  his  rank,  with  the  honors  the  absence 
of  which  I had  marked  when  my  own  General 
came,  I slipped  my  hand  out  of  my  Soldier’s 
and  ran  back  to  my  stateroom  as  fast  as  I could. 

There  I burst  out  crying  and  shook  our  baby, 
waking  him,  and  told  him  how  his  dear  father 
had  been  treated — that  he  had  not  had  any  hon- 
ors paid  him  at  all,  and  that  a dreadful  old  bad 
Yankee  General  had  come  on  board  and  taken 
them  all,  and  that  when  he  grew  up  and  was 
a big  man  he  must  fight  and  fight  and  fight,  and 
never  surrender,  and  never  forgive  the  Yankees ; 
no,  not  even  if  his  poor,  dethroned  father  asked 
him  to  do  so.  I told  him  how  his  father  had 
asked  me  to  shake  hands  with  this  Yankee 
General,  because  he  was  his  friend,  and  that  I 
was  going  to  do  it  because  his  father  wanted 
me  to;  that  I tried  and  could  not  and  that  he 
never  must,  either — never,  never! 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  195 


I did  not  know  there  was  a witness  to  all  my 
bitterness  till  I heard  a smothered  chuckle  and, 
looking  up,  saw  my  Soldier  and  his  friend,  Gen- 
eral Rufus  Ingalls,  standing  over  me.  With  a 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  and  in  a voice  full  of  sup- 
pressed laughter,  General  Ingalls  said,  as  he 
patted  me  on  the  head: 

“I  don’t  blame  you  one  bit,  little  woman — not 
a damn  bit.  I should  feel  just  as  terrible  about 
it  as  you  do  if  I were  in  your  place.  It’s  all 
different  with  Pickett  and  me,  you  see.  We 
don’t  mind.  Why,  do  you  know,  child,  we  have 
slept  under  the  same  blanket,  fought  under  the 
same  flag,  eaten  out  of  the  same  mess-pan, 
dodged  the  same  bullets,  scalped  the  same  In- 
dians, made  love  to  the  same  girls— aye,  Pickett, 
it  won’t  do,  by  Jove,  to  tell  her  all  we  have  done 
together — no,  no — come,  shake  hands.  I am 
dreadful  sorry  we  have  had  this  terrible  kick-up 
in  the  family,  and  all  this  row  and  bloodshed, 
but  we  are  all  Americans,  damn  it,  anyhow,  and 
your  fellows  have  been  mighty  plucky  to  hold 
out  as  they  have.  Come,  that’s  a good  child; 
shake  hands.  May  I kiss  her,  Pickett?  No — 
damn  it,  I shan’t  ask  you.  There,  there ! Here 
is  a basket  of  trash  I had  the  orderly  rake  to- 
gether. I don’t  know  what  it  all  is,  but  I told 
the  man  to  do  the  best  he  could.  Here,  Mr. 
George  junior — with  your  bright  eyes  and  your 


196  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


won’t-cry  mouth — here  is  a green  chip  for  a pair 
of  red  shoes.” 

General  Ingalls  put  into  our  baby’s  hands  his 
first  greenback,  and  it  was  the  only  money  we 
had,  too — every  cent.  Baby  and  I said  good- 
bye, and  he  and  my  Soldier  went  out  on  deck. 
While  I was  peeping  into  the  basket  “Mr. 
George  junior”  tore  the  note  in  two.  I caught 
the  pieces  and  stuck  my  bonnet-pin  through 
them  till  I could  paste  them  together.  One  of 
the  officers  brought  me  some  glue,  and  I cut  a 
hundred-dollar  Confederate  note  in  two  to  mend 
it  with.  Poor  Confederate  money! 

Representing  nothing  in  God’s  earth  now, 

And  naught  in  the  waters  below  it; 

As  the  pledge  of  a nation  that  passed  away, 
Keep  it,  dear  friend,  and  show  it. 

Show  it  to  those  who  will  lend  an  ear 
To  a tale  this  trifle  will  tell — 

Of  Liberty  born  of  a patriot’s  dream, 

Of  a storm-cradled  nation  that  fell. 

Too  poor  to  possess  the  precious  ores, 

And  too  much  of  a stranger  to  borrow, 

We  issued  to-day  our  promise  to  pay, 

And  hoped  to  redeem  on  the  morrow. 

* These  verses  were  written  on  the  back  of  a Confederate  note, 
and  for  a time  were  ascribed  to  John  Esten  Cooke  and  to 
Colonel  Wythe  Mumford;  afterward  attributed  to  Colonel 
Jonas.  , 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  197 


The  days  rolled  on,  and  weeks  became  years, 
But  our  coffers  were  empty  still; 

Coin  was  so  scarce  that  the  treasury  quaked 
When  a dollar  would  drop  in  the  till. 

But  the  faith  that  was  in  us  was  strong,  indeed, 
Though  our  poverty  well  we  discerned; 

And  this  little  check  represents  the  pay 
That  our  suffering  veterans  earned. 

They  knew  it  had  hardly  a value  in  gold, 

Yet  as  gold  our  soldiers  received  it; 

It  gazed  in  our  eyes  with  a promise  to  pay, 

And  every  true  soldier  believed  it. 

But  our  boys  thought  little  of  price  or  pay, 

Or  of  bills  that  were  overdue — 

We  knew  if  it  brought  us  our  bread  to-day 
’Twas  the  best  our  poor  country  could  do. 

Keep  it!  It  tells  all  our  history  over, 

From  the  birth  of  our  dream  till  its  last ; 

Modest,  and  bom  of  the  angel  Hope, 

Like  our  visions  of  glory,  it  passed. 

Baby’s  first  greenback  was  put  to  diy,  and 
then  I turned  my  attention  to  the  big  covered 
basket  the  sailor  had  brought  in.  What  an 
Aladdin  treat  it  was ! Baisins — the  first  I had 
seen  in  years  and  years — coffee,  real  “sho’-’nuff” 
coffee — sugar,  crushed  sugar — how  nice!  (we 
had  had  nothing  but  sorghum- juice  sugar  and 
sweet-potato  coffee  for  so  long) — rice  and 
prunes,  Jamaica  rum,  candy  and  a box  of  dried 


198  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


figs — nothing  ever  had  tasted  so  delicious  as  all 
these  good  things — and,  well — the  Yankee  Gen- 
eral who  gave  them  all  to  me — the  tones  of  his 
voice  made  more  peace  than  his  words.  Eating 
the  figs,  I repeated  the  words  to  baby,  saying : 

“Never  mind,  baby,  about  hating  this  Yankee. 
He  said  your  father  and  he  had  trailed  after  the 
same  Indians  and  smoked  their  venison  at  the 
same  camp-fire  and  had  drunk  from  the  same 
flask.  He  said  you  looked  like  your  father,  and 
he  said  you  were  a beautiful  boy.  So  you  need 
not  mind  about  hating  just  this  one.  He  said 
geography  and  politics  had  forced  your  father 
and  him  to  opposite  courses  and  it  took  four 
years  to  settle  for  their  hot-headedness  and  am- 
bitions. You  must  never  be  a politician,  and — 
you  may  love  this  one  Yankee  a tiny  bit,  and 
may  suck  a piece  of  his  beautiful  candy.” 

Dr.  Suckley  not  only  took  us  to  Norfolk,  which 
was  the  end  of  his  route,  but  he  took  us  up  the 
Nansemond  River,  thirty  miles,  and  up  Chucka- 
tuck  Creek,  to  my  father’s  wharf.  No  one  was 
expecting  us.  They  thought,  of  course,  it  was 
the  “Yankees  come  again,”  and  had  all  run  off 
and  hidden,  except  my  father  who  came  down 
to  catch  the  boat-line  and  welcome  the  travelers, 
whoever  they  might  be.  Oh,  the  joyful  wel- 
come of  my  great  big-hearted  father! 

Soldiers  and  sailors,  one  and  all,  came  and 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  199 


shook  hands  with  ns.  Baby  and  my  little 
brother,  Johnny,  had  made  friends  of  them  all 
for  ns.  Baby  knew  no  difference  between  those 
who  wore  the  blue  and  those  who  wore  the  gray, 
and  some  of  them  had  little  ones  at  home.  We 
said  good-bye,  with  many  a regret,  to  our  kind 
friend  and  benefactor,  Dr.  Suckley,  and  to  the 
sailors  and  officers,  and  this  time  cheer  after 
cheer  went  up  for  my  noble  hero  Soldier,  as  the 
little  steamer  hauled  in  the  lines  and  puffed 
away,  and  more  names  were  added  to  the  list 
of  Yankees  for  baby  not  to  hate. 


XXIII 


“SKOOKUM  TUM-TUM” 

MY  Soldier  did  not  like  to  fight  his  battles 
over.  He  said  that  the  memories  they 
revived  were  too  sacred  and  sorrowful 
for  utterance.  The  faces  of  the  dead  and  dying 
soldiers  on  the  field  of  battle  were  never  for- 
gotten. The  sorrow  of  widows  and  orphans 
shadowed  all  the  glory  for  him.  In  the  pres- 
ence of  memory  he  was  silent.  The  deepest 
sorrow,  like  the  greatest  joy,  is  dumb. 

“We  are  both  too  worn  and  weary  now  for 
aught  else  but  to  rest  and  comfort  each  other,” 
he  said.  “We  will  lock  out  of  our  lives  every- 
thing but  its  joys.  From  adversity,  defeat  and 
mourning  shall  spring  calmness  for  the  past, 
strength  for  the  present,  courage  for  the  future. 
Now  that,  in  obedience  to  the  command  of  Gen- 
eral Lee,  I have  finished  and  sent  off  the  report 
of  the  last  fight  of  the  old  division,  the  closing 
days  of  our  dear  lost  cause,  we  will  put  up 
the  pen  for  awhile  and  lay  aside  our  war 


200 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  201 


thoughts.  We  will  rest  and  plan  for  peace  and 
after  a time  we  will  take  up  the  pen  again  and 
write  down  our  memories  for  our  children  and 
perhaps  for  the  children  of  the  old  division. 
We  will  build  us  a nest  over  the  ashes  of  our 
grand  old  home  on  the  James  and  plant  a new 
grove  in  the  place  of  the  sturdy  old  oaks  cut 
down.” 

My  Soldier  possessed  the  greatest  capacity 
for  happiness  and  such  dauntless  courage  and 
self-control  that,  to  all  appearance,  he  could  as 
cheerfully  and  buoyantly  steer  his  way  over  the 
angry,  menacing,  tumultuous  surges  of  life  as 
over  the  waves  that  glide  in  tranquil  smoothness 
and  sparkle  in  the  sunlight  of  a calm,  clear  sky. 

This  sweet  rest  which  we  had  planned  for  our- 
selves, however,  was  of  but  short  duration.  We 
had  been  at  my  father’s  home  only  a few  days 
when  a private  messenger  brought  letters  of 
warning  from  some  of  my  Soldier’s  old  army 
friends.  Two  officers  high  in  authority,  solici- 
tous for  his  welfare,  advised  that  in  the  existing 
uncertain,  incendiary,  seditious  condition  of 
things  he  should  absent  himself  for  awhile 
until  calm  reflection  should  take  the  place  of 
wild  impulse  and  time  bring  healing  on  its  wings 
and  make  peace  secure.  Knowing  his  fearless- 
ness and  stubbornness,  General  Ingalls  and 
General  Tom  Pitcher  came  in  person  to  voice 


202  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


their  apprehensions,  lest  my  Soldier  might  not 
heed  the  warning. 

Butler,  who  had  not  yet  recovered  from  the 
“bottling-up”  experience,  had  instigated  a move- 
ment to  have  my  Soldier  indicted  for  treason, 
based  on  the  assertion  that  he  had  joined  the 
Confederacy  before  his  resignation  from  the 
United  States  Army  had  been  accepted  by  the 
War  Department.  He  was  at  that  time  on  the 
Pacific  coast  where  information  of  the  secession 
of  Virginia  had  been  received  many  weeks  after 
the  ordinance  was  passed  and  many  more  weeks 
must  elapse  before  a message  could  be  delivered 
to  the  Department  in  Washington  and  a reply 
returned. 

The  nation  had  gone  mad  with  grief  and  rage. 
The  waves  of  passion  rose  mountain-high  and 
from  the  awful  storm  the  angels  of  justice, 
mercy  and  peace  took  flight.  All  that  was  bad 
in  the  hearts  of  men  arose  to  the  surface;  all 
that  was  good  sank  to  the  depths.  The  first 
pe.rson  that  could  be  seized  was  regarded  as 
the  proper  victim  to  the  national  fury.  The 
weakest  and  most  defenseless  was  made  the  tar- 
get of  popular  wrath  because  rage  could  there- 
by most  quickly  spend  itself  in  vengeance.  Mrs. 
Surratt  was  imprisoned,  and  the  whole  country 
was  in  a state  of  frenzy  and  on  the  verge  of 
revolution. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  203 


Strictest  secrecy  was  enjoined  upon  us.  Only 
my  father  and  mother  were  taken  into  our  con- 
fidence. Lucy  was  bridled,  saddled  and  brought 
to  the  door.  I walked  with  my  Soldier,  he 
holding  the  bridle,  to  the  upper  gate.  It  was 
ten  o’clock;  the  moon  was  shining  brightly  and 
all  was  quiet  and  still. 

My  Soldier’s  plan  for  me  was  that  I should  go 
next  day  to  Norfolk,  take  the  steamer  to  Balti- 
more and  visit  his  aunt,  whose  husband,  Colonel 
Symington,  had  been  in  the  old  army,  and  who 
had  not  left  it  to  join  the  Southern  Confederacy, 
though  his  sons  had  fought  on  that  side,  one  of 
them  having  been  detailed  on  duty  at  my  Sol- 
dier’s headquarters. 

“My  aunt  will  welcome  you,”  he  said,  “and 
you  will  remain  with  her  until  a telegram  shall 
come  to  you  saying,  ‘Edwards  is  better.’  ” 
(Edwards  was  my  Soldier’s  middle  name.) 

That  telegram  would  mean  that  he  was  safe 
and  that  I was  to  join  him,  starting  on  the  next 
train.  I was  to  telegraph  to  “Edwards”  from 
Albany,  on  my  way  to  him,  sending  my  message 
to  the  place  at  which  his  telegram  had  been 
dated.  If  his  telegram  should  say,  “There  is 
still  danger  of  contagion,”  I was  not  to  start, 
but  remain  with  his  aunt  until  another  message 
should  come. 

“Cheer  up,  the  shadows  will  scatter  soon. 


204  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


Already  bright  visions  and  happy  day-dreams 
flit  through  my  brain  and  thrill  my  heart;  so 
keep  up  a ‘skookum  tum-tum,’  little  one,  and 
take  care  of  yourself.  Watch  for  the  telegram, 
‘Edwards  is  better,’  for  it  will  surely  come.” 

I smiled  up  at  him  as  he  repeated  the  familiar 
old  saying,  learned  from  an  old  Chinook  war- 
rior on  the  Pacific.  In  the  darkest  days  he 
would  lift  my  face  upward,  look  down  with  his 
kind  eyes  and  gentle  smile  and  say,  “Keep  up 
a skookum  tum-tum,  dear  one.”  All  through 
my  life  have  the  sweet  old  words  come  back 
to  me  when  the  sun  has  been  hidden  by  the  dark- 
est clouds. 

I heard  the  footsteps  of  the  horse  keeping 
time  to  my  Soldier’s  whistle,  “Believe  me  if  all 
those  endearing  young  charms,”  away  in  the 
distance  long  after  he  was  out  of  sight.  I re- 
membered a trick  of  my  childhood  which  had 
been  taught  me  by  a half-Indian,  half-negress 
and,  putting  my  ear  to  the  ground,  I listened  to 
the  steps  until  the  last  echo  was  lost.  Later  I 
learned  that  the  faithful  Lucy  bore  her  master 
safely  to  the  station  and  when  the  train  carried 
him  away  lay  down  and  died,  as  if  she  felt  that, 
having  done  all  she  could,  life  held  for  her  no 
more  duties  or  pleasures. 

The  night-wind  sighed  with  me  as  I walked 
back,  repeating,  “Keep  up  a skookum  tum-tum.” 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  205 


My  pathway  lay  parallel  with  the  Chuckatuck 
Creek,  a stone’s  throw  to  the  left.  The  tide 
was  high  and  still  coming  in.  The  surging  of 
the  waves  seemed  to  call  out  to  me,  “Skookum 
tum-tum!  Skookum  tum-tum!”  I could  not  be 
all  desolate  when  the  most  beautiful  forces  of 
nature,  echoing  his  words,  called  to  me,  “Keep 
up  a brave  heart — brave  heart!” 

My  precious  old  father  had  waited  to  have 
us  say  good-bye  alone  and  was  now  coming  for- 
ward to  meet  me.  Our  baby  awakened  just  as 
we  reached  home  and  I confided  to  him  the 
secret  of  the  telegram  and  told  him  his  dear 
father  said  that  it  would  surely  come  and  he 
always  said  what  was  true. 

The  stars  were  burning  brightly  in  the  mid- 
night sky  to  light  the  traveler  on  his  way  as  he 
went  afar  off.  Could  there  be  light  on  the  path- 
way that  led  him  from  me?  Had  his  face  been 
turned  southward,  with  his  eyes  fixed  joyfully 
upon  the  loved  home  where  he  would  be  wel- 
comed when  the  journey  was  over,  what  radiant 
glory  would  have  flooded  the  way. 

Far  up  in  the  zenith  I could  see  “our  star” 
gleaming  brilliantly,  seeming  to  reach  out  fin- 
gers of  light  to  touch  me  in  loving  caress.  It 
was  a pure  white  star  that  sent  down  a veil  of 
silvery  radiance.  Near  it  was  a red  star,  gleam- 
ing and  beautiful,  but  I did  not  love  it.  It 


206  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


seemed  to  glow  with  the  baleful  fires  of  war. 
My  great,  loving,  tender,  white  star  was  like  a 
symbol  of  peace  looking  down  with  serenest 
benediction. 

“Our  star,”  he  had  said  as  we  stood  together 
only  one  little  evening  before — how  long  it 
seemed! — and  gazed  upward  to  find  what  com- 
fort we  might  in  its  soft  glow.  “Wherever  we 
may  be  we  will  look  aloft  into  the  night  sky 
where  it  shines  with  steady  light,  and  feel  that 
our  thoughts  and  hearts  are  together.” 

I fell  asleep,  saying  softly,  “God’s  lights  to 
guide  him.” 

There  were  no  steamers  and  no  railroads 
from  my  home  to  Norfolk,  but  my  father  se- 
cured a pungy — a little  oyster-boat — and  the 
following  day  we — baby  and  I — started  off. 

A storm  came  up  just  as  we  left  Chuckatuck 
Creek  and  we  were  delayed  in  arriving  at  Nor- 
folk. We  had  hoped  to  be  there  some  hours  be- 
fore the  departure  of  the  Baltimore  steamer, 
but  reached  the  wharf  as  the  plank  was  about 
to  be  taken  in,  so  that  my  father  barely  had 
time  to  say  good-bye  to  me  and  put  me  on  board. 


XXIV 


CAKPET-BAG,  BASKET  AND  BABY 

ALONE,  except  for  baby  George,  for  the 
first  time  in  all  my  seventeen  years! 
Perhaps  no  timid  little  waif  thrown  out 
upon  the  deep  sea  of  life  ever  felt  more  utterly 
desolate. 

I stepped  on  board  the  Baltimore  steamer  and 
was  piloted  into  the  saloon  by  a porter  whose 
manner  showed  that  he  was  perfectly  cognizant 
of  my  ignorance  and  inexperience.  In  the  midst 
of  my  loneliness  and  the  consciousness  of  my 
awkwardness  and  my  real  sorrows,  sympathy 
for  myself  revived  my  old-time  compassion  for 
poor  David  Copperfield,  whom  Steerforth’s 
servant  had  caused  to  feel  so  “young  and  green.” 

So  little  did  I know  of  traveling  and  the 
modes  and  manners  of  travelers,  that  I sent 
for  the  captain  of  the  steamer  to  buy  my  ticket 
and  arrange  for  my  stateroom  and  supper. 

I had  been  warned  on  leaving  my  home  that 
the  slightest  imprudence  or  careless  word  from 

207 


208  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


me  might  cause  my  arrest,  and  that  if  it  were 
known  who  I was  it  was  more  than  possible  that 
I might  be  held  as  hostage  for  my  husband. 
After  consideration  it  had  been  decided  that  I 
should  travel  under  my  maiden  name.  My  train 
of  thought  was  interrupted  by  the  ringing  of 
a bell  and  a loud  voice  shouting : 

“Passengers  will  please  walk  into  the  custom- 
house office  and  show  their  passports !” 

The  laws  were  so  strict  that  no  one  could 
leave  any  city  in  the  South  without  a passport 
from  the  military  authorities.  My  grandmother 
had  given  me  her  “oath  of  allegiance,”  which 
everybody  in  those  dread  days  immediately 
after  the  surrender  of  the  army  was  compelled 
to  take  in  order  to  purchase  medicine,  food  or 
clothing  of  any  kind,  or  for  the  transaction  of 
any  business  whatever.  It  was  a rare  occur- 
rence that  a man  was  found  who  would  take 
this  iron-clad  oath  for,  no  matter  how  great  the 
exigency  might  be,  he  was  branded  as  a traitor 
if  he  yielded.  So  the  women,  who  were  most 
bitter,  too,  in  their  feelings,  were  obliged  to 
make  a sacrifice  of  their  convictions  and  prin- 
ciples, and  take  this  oath  in  order  to  alleviate 
the  suffering  of  their  loved  ones.  Illness  in  the 
family  and  the  urgent  necessity  for  quinine  and 
salt  left  my  unselfish  little  grandmother  no  al- 
ternative, and  she  found  a kind  of  safety  in  the 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  209 


oath.  It  had  brought  her  relief  and  she  wanted 
that  I should  have  it  with  me  as  a “mascot”  or 
safeguard. 

With  carpet-bag,  basket  and  baby  I started 
into  the  custom-house  office  and  explained  to  the 
officer  in  charge : 

“I  am  very  sorry,  sir,  that  I have  no  passport. 
The  steamer  was  about  to  sail  as  I reached  Nor- 
folk. I came  from  a little  village  thirty  miles 
beyond  where  passports  are  not  given.  I have 
an  oath  of  allegiance,  if  that  will  answer  in  its 
place.” 

The  officer,  laughing,  said : 

“No;  never  mind.  It  is  all  right;  only  reg- 
ister your  name.  I remember  you  did  come  on 
board  just  as  the  whistle  blew;  but  was  there 
not  another  passenger  who  came  on  with  you — 
a gentleman?” 

“Yes,  sir,”  I replied.  “It  was  my  precious 
father,  and  he  went  back  home  in  the  little  sail- 
boat.” 

There  must  have  been  something  to  excite 
suspicion  in  the  way  I wrote  my  name  or  in  my 
manner.  I boldly  wrote  out  my  given  name  and 
then,  as  I began  to  write  my  last  name,  I looked 
all  around  me,  confused,  and  changed  the  letter 
“P”  to  “C,”  writing  “Corbell.”  Then  I began  to 
erase  “Corbell”  and  write  “Phillips,”  the  name 
in  my  oath  of  allegiance.  While  there  was 


210  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


nothing  very  false  in  what  I did,  I felt  guilty 
and  was  frightened,  for  I had  been  brought  up 
to  be  strictly  truthful. 

I had  not  been  long  in  the  saloon  when  baby 
became  restless  and  fretful.  I was  impatiently 
awaiting  the  coming  of  the  captain,  for  whom 
I had  sent,  when  a man  appeared.  He  had 
short  curly  hair,  deep,  heavy  eyebrows,  eyes 
sunken  and  close  together  as  if  they  had  to  be 
focused  by  his  big,  hooked  nose  to  enable  them 
to  see.  He  was  chewing  alternately  one  end  of 
his  crinkly  moustache  and  one  side  of  his  thick 
red  lip  and  was  making  a sucking  noise  with 
his  tongue  as  he  said: 

“Madam,  you  sent  for  the  captain  of  the  boat, 
I believe.” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

“What  do  you  wish?” 

“I  want  you  to  be  kind  enough  to  get  my 
ticket  and  stateroom,  please,”  I replied.  “My 
father  had  only  time  to  put  me  on  board  and 
could  not  make  any  arrangements.” 

“Certainly;  with  pleasure.  You  stop  in  Bal- 
timore long?” 

“I  don’t  know,”  I replied. 

“You  have  been  there  before,  I suppose?” 

“Oh,  no ; never.  I have  been  nowhere  outside 
of  Virginia  and  North  Carolina.  Most  of  my 
traveling  before  my  marriage  was  in  going  to 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  211 


and  from  Lynchburg,  where  I was  at  school. 

“Once  I rode  on  horseback  to  the  Peaks  of 
Otter,  which  are  among  the  highest  mountains 
of  the  South.  You  can’t  imagine  how  glorious 
it  was  to  be  up  there  so  far  away  from  the  earth. 
When  I first  looked  down  from  their  lofty 
heights  the  sky  and  the  earth  seemed  to  be 
touching,  and  presently  the  rain  began  to  pour. 
I could  see  the  glimmering,  glittering  drops, 
but  could  not  hear  them  fall.  I was  above  the 
clouds  and  the  rain,  up  in  the  sunshine  and 
stillness,  the  only  audible  sound  being  a strange 
flapping  of  wings  as  the  hawks  and  buzzards 
flew  by.  Suddenly  the  rain  ceased,  the  haze 
vanished  and  I saw  below  the  rugged  mountains 
the  level  country  that  looked  like  a vast  ocean 
in  the  distance. 

“The  words  of  John  Randolph  echoed  in  my 
heart  with  this  infinite  mystery  of  nature.  He 
with  only  a servant  spent  the  night  on  those 
mighty  rocks  and  in  the  morning  as  he  was 
watching  the  glory  of  the  sunrise  he  pointed 
upward  with  his  long  slender  hand  and,  having 
no  one  else  to  whom  to  express  his  thought, 
charged  his  servant  never  from  that  time  to 
believe  anyone  who  said  there  was  no  God. 

“‘No,  sah,  Marse  John;  no  sab,’  said  the 
awe-stricken  servant.  ‘I  ain’t  gwine  to,  sah.  I 
ain’t  gwine  to  let  none  of  Marse  Thomas  Didy- 


212  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


muses’  temptatious  bedoutin’  tricks  cotck  no 
holt  of  my  understandin’  of  de  Lord.’ 

“Once,  too,  I ” 

“You  have  relatives  in  Baltimore?”  said  the 
gentleman,  abruptly  interrupting  me ; otherwise, 
feeling  that  geography  and  history  were  safe 
subjects,  I should  have  rattled  on  till  I had 
told  him  all  I knew. 

“Yes,  sir,”  I replied.  “I  am  going  to  visit 
them.” 

“Where  were  you  from  this  morning?” 

“I  came  from  a litle  country  village  about 
thirty  miles  from  Norfolk— Chuckatuck,  in 
Nansemond  County.” 

As  I was  about  to  launch  another  tide  of  his- 
toric information  upon  him  he  again  interrupted 
me. 

“I  saw  your  father  as  he  was  leaving  the 
steamer.  I was  attracted  to  him  because  he 
made  an  appeal  to  all  Masons,  asking  of  them 
protection  and  care  for  his  child  and  grandchild. 
He  was  thus  making  himself  known  to  any  of 
us,  his  brothers,  who  might  be  aboard  when  he 
disappeared  at  the  turn  of  the  boat.  So  you 
can  safely  confide  in  me,  and  I will  help  you  in 
any  way  possible.” 

“Thank  you,”  I replied.  “I  know  my  dear, 
dear  papa  is  a Mason,  and  that  he  was  anxious 
about  me,  but  there  is  nothing  to  confide — noth- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  213 


ing.  I want  only  a stateroom  and  my  tickets 
and  some  milk  for  the  baby.  I do  not  wish  for 
any  supper  myself ; I am  too  lonesome  to  eat. 
It  is  wicked  to  feel  blue  and  downhearted,  with 
baby  and  all  the  kind  friends  to  watch  over  me, 
as  you  say;  and  then  Grod  is  always  near.” 

“Yes,  that  is  true;  but  did  you  lose  your  hus- 
band in  the  war?” 

“No,  sir.” 

“He  was  in  the  war,  though,  was  he  not?” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

A fear  came  into  my  heart  that  I was  talking 
too  much.  I did  not  want  him  to  know  anything 
concerning  my  husband,  whose  rank  it  was  es- 
pecially important  to  keep  secret.  I encour- 
aged myself  with  the  reflection  that  the  end 
justified  the  means,  even  though  a slight  de- 
viation from  the  truth  might  be  involved,  and 
said: 

“You  could  not  have  heard  of  him,  and  he  was 
not  of  sufficient  rank  to  have  made  an  impres- 
sion upon  you  if  you  had.” 

“Where  is  he  now?” 

“In  the  country.” 

“And  you  are  leaving  him?” 

“Yes,  sir,  but  just  for  a little  while.” 

Then  he  talked  of  how  much  the  Southerners 
had  lost  and  how  much  they  had  to  forgive; 
how  easy  it  was  to  bear  victory  and  how  hard 


214  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


to  endure  defeat,  saying  that  if  he  had  been 
born  in  the  South  he  would  have  been  a rebel, 
and  that  his  sympathies  even  now  were  with 
the  Southern  people.  A sudden  suspicion  came 
to  me  and  I said : 

“I  wish  there  had  never  been  any  rebels  at 
all ; not  even  the  first  rebel,  George  Washington ; 
and  now,  sir,  please,  I do  not  want  to  talk  about 
the  war.  I am  very  weary  and  sleepy  and 
would  like  to  retire.  If  you  please,  sir,  will  you 
get  me  my  stateroom  and  ticket?  I am  so  tired 
— so  very  tired.” 

Baby  was  lying  asleep  on  my  lap,  hypnotized 
by  the  chandeliers.  The  man  looked  down  on 
him  for  a moment  and  then  said,  “Of  course,  I 
will  get  them  for  you,”  and  was  going,  when  an 
ex-Confederate  officer,  one  of  my  Soldier’s  old 
comrades  and  friends,  came  up  and,  cordially 
extending  his  hand,  greeted  me : 

“How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Pickett?  Where  is  the 
General?  What  are  you  doing  here,  and  where 
are  you  going?” 

He  himself  was  returning  to  his  home  in  the 
far  South,  but  had  been  called  back  to  Balti- 
more on  business. 

“Thank  you,  General,”  I replied.  “My  hus- 
band has  gone  to  farming  and  I am  on  my  way 
to  visit  his  aunt,  whom  I have  never  seen.  He 
is  to  come  to  us  after  a little  while;  could  not 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  215 


leave  conveniently  just  now.  He  is  very  well, 
I thank  you.” 

“I  am  so  glad  to  have  met  you,”  he  returned. 
‘Will  see  you  later  on,”  and  was  hobbling  away 
on  his  crutches.  He  saw  by  my  manner  that 
he  had  said  something  to  embarrass  me  and 
left  with  a pained  look.  He  was  still  dressed 
in  his  old  Confederate  gray,  from  which  the 
brass  buttons  had  all  been  cut,  in  obedience  to 
the  order  from  the  custom- house  office,  and  re- 
placed by  plain  steel.  For  several  moments  not 
a word  was  spoken.  Then  I looked  up  and  said : 

“My  tickets  and  stateroom,  please.” 

“I  thought  you  said  your  name  was  Corbell,” 
he  of  the  hooked  nose  rejoined  as  he  held  my 
money  shaking  in  his  hand.  “I  thought  you 
said  your  husband’s  rank  was  not  sufficient  to 
have  made  an  impression;  that  in  all  probabil- 
ity I had  never  heard  of  him.” 

Oh,  that  smacking  sound  of  jaw  and  tongue, 
and  that  beak  of  a nose,  and  those  little  black 
eyes  which  grew  into  Siamese  twins  as  they 
glared  at  me  like  the  eyes  of  a snake ! 

“Did  I say  that?”  I asked  and,  with  a face 
all  honesty  and  truth,  I looked  straight  into 
those  eyes  and  told,  without  blushing,  without 
a tremor  in  my  voice,  the  first  deliberate  false- 
hood I had  ever  told : 

“Did  I say  so?  Well,  my  friends  think  that 


216  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


my  mind  has  been  unbalanced  by  the  way  the 
war  has  ended  and  they  are  sending  me  from 
home  to  new  scenes  and  associations  to  divert 
me,  with  the  hope  of  making  me  well  and  strong 
again.  Corbell  was  my  maiden  name,  but  I do 
not  know  how  I happened  to  say  that  my  hus- 
band’s rank  was  low,  for  I was  so  proud  of  it; 
I could  not  have  been  thinking.  Will  you  please 
be  so  good  as  to  get  my  ticket?  I am  so  tired 
I don’t  know  what  I am  saying.” 

He  went  away,  and  the  stateroom  keys  were 
brought  to  me  by  a waitress  who  unlocked  the 
door  for  me,  and  I went  in,  too  frightened  now 
to  think  of  supper,  too  frightened  to  sleep,  and 
wondering  if,  in  my  imprudence,  I had  hurt  my 
husband  and  what  would  happen  if  I had. 

All  night  long  the  noise  of  the  wheel  was  to 
me  the  sound  of  the  executioner’s  axe.  All 
night  long  it  rose  and  fell  through  seas  of  blood 
— the  heart’s  blood  of  valiant  men,  of  devoted 
women,  of  innocent  little  children.  Near  morn- 
ing I fell  asleep  and  dreamed  that  it  was  I who 
had  destroyed  all  the  world  of  people  whose  life- 
blood surged  around  me  with  a maddening  roar, 
and  that  I was  destined  to  an  eternity  of  re- 
morse. 

When  I awoke  the  boat  had  landed.  Dressing 
hurriedly  I went  to  the  door  and  found  that 
it  was  locked  on  the  outside.  As  the  chamber- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  217 


maid  did  not  answer  my  repeated  call,  I beck- 
oned to  a sailor  passing  my  window  and  asked 
liim  to  tell  her  that  I was  locked  in  and  wished 
that  she  would  come  and  let  me  out.  When  she 
came  she  told  me  that  she  was  not  permitted  to 
open  the  door.  I asked  if  we  were  not  at  Balti- 
more and  an  officer  who  was  with  the  maid  an- 
swered that  we  were,  but  that  I was  to  be  de- 
tained until  the  authorities  should  come  and 
either  release  or  imprison-  me,  as  I was  sup- 
posed to  be  a suspicious  character. 

On  a slip  of  paper  I wrote — “A  Master 
Mason’s  wife  and  daughter  in  distress  demands 
in  their  name  that  you  will  come  to  her,”  and 
gave  it  to  the  chambermaid,  asking  her  to  take 
it  to  the  captain.  As  she  hesitated  the  officer 
said,  “You  might  as  well.” 

She  went  and  while  I was  trying  to  hush  the 
baby  a voice  as  kind  and  gentle  as  the  benevo- 
lent face  into  which  I looked,  said : 

“What  can  I do  for  you,  madam?  You  sent 
for  me.” 

“No,  sir,”  I replied,  “I  sent  for  the  captain 
of  the  boat,  but  I am  glad  yon  came ; you  seem 
so  kind  and  may  help  me  in  my  trouble.” 

“I  am  the  captain  of  the  boat,”  he  answered. 
“What  can  I do  for  you?” 

“You  are  not  the  gentleman  who  represented 
himself  as  the  captain  of  the  boat  last  night, 


218  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


sir,  and  bought  for  me  my  ticket.  He  was  short 
and  dark ” 

The  gentleman  interrupted  me,  saying  that  the 
pseudo  captain  was  a Federal  detective  who  had 
advised  that  I be  detained  on  the  steamer  until 
his  return  with  the  authorities  and  warrant. 

I told  him  what  the  man  had  said  about  my 
father  and  the  Masonic  sign. 

The  captain  replied : 

“Your  father  did  make  that  sign  and  placed 
you  in  our  care.  Come,  I am  captain  of  this 
steamer,  and  a captain  is  king  in  his  own  boat. 
Where  did  you  say  you  wish  to  go?  Stand 
aside,”  he  said  to  the  officer  in  charge. 

Giving  me  his  arm,  he  placed  me  and  baby, 
carpet-bag  and  basket,  in  a carriage  and  the 
driver  was  told  to  go  to  97  Brenton  Street. 

“Yis,  sor,”  said  the  Irishman.  “97  Brinton 
Strate,  sure.” 

“God  bless  you  and  watch  over  you!  Good- 
bye, little  baby.” 

After  driving  some  time,  the  Irishman  im- 
patiently told  me  there  was  no  street  by  that 
name  and  I would  have  to  get  out,  but  not  until 
I had  paid  him  for  the  time  he  had  been  hunting 
for  97  Brenton  Street. 

I did  not  know  enough  to  go  to  a drug  store 
and  consult  a directory.  I was  at  my  wits’  end, 
if  I had  ever  had  any  wits. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  219 


“Drive  me  back  to  the  captain  of  the  boat, 
please/’  I said.  “I  don’t  know  what  else  to  do.” 

When  I went  on  board  the  captain  was  not 
yet  gone,  which  was  an  unusual  thing.  He  had 
waited  to  see  the  officers  before  leaving.  I an- 
swered the  smile  that  came  into  his  face,  in 
spite  of  his  kind  heart,  by  handing  him  the  let- 
ter of  my  aunt  who  wrote  a hand  that  was  not 
only  peculiar  but  illegible. 

“Read,  captain,  and  see  if  this  is  not  Brenton 
Street,  the  place  to  which  my  aunt  has  written 
me  I must  come.” 

“ ‘Gfo  to  97  Brenton  Street,  where  my  niece, 

Mrs.  C , will  bring  you  to  my  house,’  ” he 

read.  “It  might  be  anything  else  as  well  as 
Brenton,”  he  said.  “It  looks  like  Brenton,  but 
I have  lived  here  all  my  life  and  have  never 
heard  of  such  a street.  I will  get  my  directory 
and  look.  No ; but  it  may  be  Preston ; let’s  look ; 

but  there  are  no  C s living  there.  You  might 

try  this  house,  at  any  rate,  97  Preston  Street,  ]/ 
and  if  you  do  not  find  your  friends,  come  to  the 
number  on  this  card,  where  my  wife  and  I will 
be  happy  to  have  you  as  our  guest,  you  and 
the  little  lost  bird,  till  you  can  write  to  your 
friends  and  find  out  where  they  want  you  to 
come.” 

Off  again  I started  and  arrived  at  97  Preston 
Street.  I wrote  on  my  card  and  sent  it  in : 


220  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


“Does  Mrs.  C live  here — a niece  of  Mrs. 

S ?” 

In  a moment  there  were  two  or  three  faces 
at  the  windows,  and  in  another  moment  as  many 
voices  at  the  carriage  door  asking,  “Is  this 
George  Pickett’s  wife  and  child?”  and  I was 
thankful  to  be  once  more  where  they  knew 
George  Pickett’s  wife  and  child. 

Besides  the  lovely  people  whose  home  it  was, 
there  was  with  them,  on  her  way  to  visit  her 
mother,  Mrs.  General  Boggs,  one  of  the  most 
charming  women  I ever  met.  She  had  just  re- 
turned from  the  South.  Her  husband  was  in 
the  Confederate  Army.  The  next  day  we  both 
went  out  to  the  home  of  her  mother,  my  Sol- 
dier’s aunt,  Mrs.  Symington. 


XXV 

“EDWARDS  IS  BETTER” 

THE  week  I spent  in  Hartford  County, 
Maryland,  reminded  me  of  my  childhood, 
when  I used  to  play  that  I was  a “Prin- 
cess” or  a “Beggar,”  or  “Morgiana  of  the  Forty 
Thieves,”  or  “The  White  Cat,”  or  whatever 
character  it  would  please  me  to  select  to  play, 
for  my  heart  and  soul  were  separated  from  my 
body.  I was  not  what  I pretended  to  be.  My 
body  went  to  parties  and  receptions  and  dinners, 
and  received  people  and  drove  and  paid  calls, 
while  my  soul  waited  with  intense  longing  for 
the  telegram,  “Edwards  is  better.” 

One  day  I had  been  out  to  dine  and,  coming- 
home,  found  awaiting  me  the  message  for  which 
eyes  and  heart  had  been  looking  through  a time 
that  seemed  almost  eternal. 

That  night  I took  the  train  for  New  York, 
starting  out  all  alone  again,  baby  and  I.  I 
was  tired  and  sleepy,  but  there  was  such  joy  in 
my  heart  as  I thought  of  soon  seeing  my  Soldier 


221 


222  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


that  I did  not  think  of  my  discomforts.  I re- 
peated the  telegram,  “Edwards  is  better,  Ed- 
wards is  better,”  over  and  over  again.  I sang 
it  as  a lullaby,  putting  baby  to  sleep  to  the 
measure  of  the  happy  words,  “Edwards  is  bet- 
ter.” Only  for  us  was  that  sweet  refrain. 
When  he  slept  I leaned  back  and  closed  my  eyes 
and  saw  a world  of  beauty  and  bloom  as  the 
glad  words  went  dancing  through  my  heart. 
Was  there  ever  so  sweet  a slumber-song  since 
babies  were  invented  to  awaken  the  deepest 
melody  of  mother-hearts  ? I went  to  sleep  with 
my  little  one  in  my  arms.  I had  not  money 
enough  to  get  a berth — just  barely  enough  to 
buy  my  ticket  and  pay  my  expenses  through  to 
Montreal,  Canada,  at  which  point  the  telegram 
was  dated. 

When  I awakened  later  I found  that  a home- 
spun  shawl  had  been  placed  under  my  head.  I 
never  thought  about  who  had  been  so  kind,  nor 
why  the  shawl  was  there.  All  my  life  long 
everyone  had  been  thoughtful  of  me ; things  had 
been  done  for  me,  courtesies  had  been  extended 
to  me,  and  I had  learned  to  accept  kindnesses 
as  only  what  I had  a right  to  expect  from  the 
human  race.  Murmuring  softly  the  comforting 
words,  “Edwards  is  better,”  I turned  my  face 
over  and  went  to  sleep  again  on  the  shawl  and 
did  not  awaken  until  my  baby  became  restless. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  223 


We  took  the  steamer  up  the  Hudson  from 
New  York  to  Albany.  My  poor  little  baby  was 
not  well  and  I censured  myself  for  having  al- 
lowed him  to  catch  cold  on  the  train  while  I was 
sleeping.  He  was  teething,  and  was  very  fret- 
ful. He  had  been  used  to  his  nurse,  his  black 
mammy,  and  missed  her  customary  care  and 
attention  and  was  tired  of  me,  preferring  any- 
body else.  Some  philanthropic  ladies  on  board 
the  steamer  seemed  very  much  concerned,  and 
at  a loss  to  understand  why  he  was  so  unhappy 
with  me,  not  knowing  that  he  was  accustomed  to 
a circle  of  admiring  friends  to  whom  he  might 
appeal  in  turn. 

“Nurse,  why  do  you  not  take  the  child  to  its 
mother?”  one  would  say,  and  a look  of  incredu- 
lity would  follow  my  assertion  that  I was  its 
mother.  “Then,  why  don’t  you  quiet  the  child, 
if  you  are,  and  find  out  what  is  the  matter  with 
it?”  and  so  on. 

I was  indignant  and  my  manner  must  have 
made  them  think  there  was  something  wrong  with 
me  and  the  child,  for  they  followed  me  about, 
asking  intrusive  questions  and  making  offensive 
remarks.  I was  walking  the  deck,  trying  to  quiet 
him,  all  tired  and  worn  out  as  I was,  when  a gen- 
tleman came  up  to  me.  On  his  shoulder  I recog- 
nized the  shawl  that  had  been  put  under  my 
head  on  the  cars  the  night  before.  He  said : 


224  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


“Madam,  excuse  me,  but  I do  not  think  you 
have  had  any  dinner,  and  you  must  be  worn  out 
with  hunger  and  fatigue  from  fasting  and  carry- 
ing the  baby.  Won’t  you  let  me  hold  him  while 
you  go  down  and  eat  something?” 

Even  though  he  carried  the  shawl  which  be- 
spoke my  faith,  I was  afraid  to  trust  him  with 
so  precious  a treasure,  and  would  rather  have 
starved  than  have  permitted  my  baby  to  go  out 
of  my  sight. 

“Thank  you,  very  much,  but  I could  not  think 
of  troubling  you,”  I said.  “No — oh,  no.” 

Then  he  asked : 

“May  I order  something  for  you  here?” 

I was  hungry,  and  was  glad  for  the  open  way 
he  had  found  for  me,  and  said,  “Yes,”  handing 
him  twenty-live  cents.  It  was  all  I could  afford 
to  pay  for  dinner,  but  as  I looked  at  the  tray 
when  it  was  brought  to  me,  I thought,  “How 
cheap  things  must  be  in  New  York,”  for  there 
were  soup  and  fish— a kind  of  yellow  fish  I had 
never  seen  before,  salmon,  I afterward  learned 
it  was — stewed  with  green  peas,  a bird,  aspara- 
gus, potatoes,  ice-cream,  a cup  of  coffee  and  a 
glass  of  sherry. 

Upon  his  insisting  that  it  would  be  restful  to 
the  baby,  I let  him  hold  little  George  while  I 
ate  my  dinner.  I had  not  known  how  hungry 
I was,  nor  how  much  I was  in  need  of  nourish- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  225 


rnent.  Baby  immediately  became  quiet  in  bis 
arms.  Whether  it  was  due  to  the  change  or  not, 
I do  not  know,  but  in  a little  while  he  was  fast 
asleep.  I covered  him  up  with  the  shawl  to 
which  the  gentleman  pointed,  finished  eating 
my  delicious  dinner,  taking  my  time  and  enjoy- 
ing it,  while  he  read  his  book  and  held  my 
baby.  When  the  servant  came  and  took  away 
the  tray,  I arose  and,  thanking  the  stranger  for 
his  kindness,  said: 

“I  will  take  the  baby  now,  if  you  please.” 

“If  you  would  rather,”  he  said,  “yes,  but  I 
think  he  will  be  more  comfortable  with  me  for 
awhile.  Then,  too,  you  might  waken  him  if 
you  moved  him.  Let  me  hold  him  while  you 
rest.  Here  is  a sweet  little  book,  if  you  would 
like  to  read  it.  I think,  however,  it  would  be 
better  for  you  to  rest;  to  sleep,  if  you  could. 
You  look  really  fagged  out.” 

The  book  he  gave  me  was  a child’s  book — it 
may  have  been  “Fern  Leaves.”  I can’t  remem- 
ber the  name,  but  pasted  in  the  book  was  a letter 
written  in  a child’s  irregular  hand: 

For  my  dear  darly  popsy  who  is  gon  to  fite  the 
war  fum  his  little  darly  dorter  little  mary 

Dear  popsy  don  kill  the  por  yangees  and  don 
let  the  yangees  kill  you  my  poor  popsy  little 
mary 

Dear  popsy  com  back  soon  to  me  an  mama  an 


226  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


grandad  tkats  all.  I says  your  prayers  popsy 
evry  day  fum  little  mary 

Beneath  little  Mary’s  name  was  this  line : 

“Little  Mary  died  on  the  16th  of  May,  1864 — 
her  fifth  birthday.” 

I rested,  but  thought  of  little  Mary  as  I 
watched  my  own  baby  who  was  sleeping  so 
sweetly  in  this  childless  stranger’s  arms — till 
presently  the  waves  brought  back  to  me  the 
days  of  my  childhood — the  story  of  the  sailor 
with  his  stolen  mill,  grinding  out  salt,  forever 
and  forever,  and  the  lost  talisman  lost  still — 
back  to  my  grandmother’s  knee,  listening  with 
wonder-eyes  to  “Why  the  sea  is  salt,”  the  while 
my  soul  chanted  to  music  those  all-healing,  bliss- 
ful words,  “Edwards  is  better,”  gaining  strength 
for  the  o’erhanging  trial  I least  dreamed  of — 
and  the  shadows  rose  to  make  place  for  one 
darker  still. 


XXVI 

ONE  WOMAN  REDEEMED  THEM  ALL 

ON  the  train  from  Albany  my  attention 
was  attracted  by  a man  in  close  conver- 
sation with  the  conductor.  I was  evi- 
dently the  subject  of  discussion,  for  they  would 
look  carefully  over  the  paper  they  held  and  then 
at  me  as  if  comparing  me  with  something  there- 
in described.  Had  I been  a hardened  criminal 
they  would  probably  not  have  taken  the  risk 
of  thus  warning  me  of  the  fact  that  I was  under 
suspicion.  As  my  appearance  would  seem  to 
indicate  that,  if  a law-breaker,  I was  a mere  tyro 
in  crime,  they  supposed  they  could  safely  take 
notes  of  me.  I was  absolutely  sure  that  they 
were  talking  of  me  and  trembled  with  a pre- 
sentiment of  coming  evil.  I tried  to  turn  my 
face  to  the  window  but  my  eyes  were  fascinated. 
A thousand  preposterous  fears  passed  in  review 
before  my  mind,  though  the  real  one  never  sug- 
gested itself.  I endeavored  to  dispel  them  each 
in  turn,  arguing  that  the  scrutiny  of  the  men 

227 


228  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


foreboded  nothing,  because  I seemed  an  object 
of  curiosity  to  everybody  and,  recalling  my  ap- 
pearance, I do  not  wonder. 

My  dress  was  different  from  that  of  those 
around  me,  though  I was  unconscious  of  any 
defect  in  my  apparel,  being  garmented  in  my 
very  best,  the  traveling  gown  in  which  I had 
been  married,  and  which  had  been  bought  and 
made  under  great  difficulties  and  kept  afterward 
with  scrupulous  care.  So  I was  perfectly  well 
satisfied  with  myself. 

I wore  a long,  loose-fitting  black  silk  mantilla 
with  three  ruffles  at  the  bottom,  while  those 
around  me  were  dressed  in  tight-fitting,  short 
cloth  jackets.  My  gray  straw  bonnet,  sewed 
into  poke  shape  by  our  fashionable  village  mil- 
liner, extended  far  over  the  face,  its  wreath  of 
pink  moss-rosebuds  inside  tangled  in  with  my 
dark  brown  hair.  It  was  trimmed  on  the  outside 
with  several  clusters  and  bunches  of  hand-made 
grapes  of  a lighter  shade  of  gray.  My  collar 
was  about  five  inches  wide  and  pinned  in  front 
with  a cameo  breastpin.  The  prevailing  collar 
worn  by  the  world  around  me  was  linen,  very 
narrow,  only  an  edge  showing,  and  small  jaunty 
hats,  worn  back  on  the  head,  were  the  style. 

The  conductor  seemed  to  be  arguing  with  the 
strange  man  as  I caught  his  eye.  Just  then  my 
baby  sprang  forward  and  snatched  a newspaper 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  229 


that  an  old  gentleman  in  front  of  me  was  read- 
ing, and  shrieked  when  it  was  loosened  from  his 
grasp,  the  old  gentleman  looking  daggers  in 
answer  to  my  apology.  After  this  diversion  I 
fonnd  that  the  two  men  were  gone,  for  which 
I thanked  Heaven. 

I had  just  settled  back,  a little  unnerved  and 
weak,  when  from  behind  me  came  a touch  on  my 
shoulder  and,  turning  around,  I saw  the  strange 
man  and  the  conductor.  The  former  said,  “I 
have  a warrant  for  your  arrest,  Madam,”  and 
forthwith  served  it  upon  me. 

There  on  the  cars,  all  alone,  miles  away  from 
home  and  friends,  two  dollars  and  ten  cents  all 
my  little  store,  I was  arrested  for — stealing! 
Stealing  my  own  child ! I could  not  read  the 
warrant  as  it  trembled  in  my  hands — I had 
never  before  seen  or  heard  of  one.  Baby 
thought  it  was  a compromise  for  the  old  gentle- 
man’s paper,  and  it  was  with  difficulty  rescued 
from  his  little  clenched  hands,  after  being  torn 
in  the  struggle. 

As  soon  as  my  confused  wits  grasped  the 
meaning  of  this  I said : 

“This  baby?  This  baby,  sir?  It  is  mine — 
mine — it  is  named  after  its  father — it  is  mine 
and  I can  prove  it  by  everybody  in  the  world, 
and ” 

“Well,  well,”  said  the  conductor  kindly,  his 


230  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


voice  trembling,  “that’s  all  he  wants,  lady.  You 
will  be  detained,  probably,  only  till  the  next 
train.” 

“But  I must  go  on,”  I said,  “for  my  husband 
is  looking  for  me  and  I could  not  bear  to  stay 
away  another  minute  longer  than  the  time  at 
which  he  expects  me.  Please,  everybody,  help 
me.” 

My  fright  had  attracted  attention,  and  some 
stared,  some  were  too  refined  even  to  look  to- 
ward me;  others  merely  glanced  over  their 
glasses  or  looked  up  from  their  books  and  went 
on  reading.  Some  kept  their  faces  carefully 
turned  toward  the  landscape;  a few,  just  as 
heartless  and  more  vulgar,  gathered  around  me 
in  open-mouthed  curiosity. 

One  woman’s  good  heart,  thank  God,  redeemed 
them  all.  She  came  forward,  her  tender  blue 
eyes  moist  with  sympathy,  her  black  crepe  veil 
thrown  back  from  her  lovely  face  and  her  wav- 
ing hair  with  the  silver  threads  all  too  soon 
among  the  gold,  and  said  in  a voice  so  sweet 
that  it  might  have  come  from  the  hearts  of  the 
lilies-of-the-valley  that  she  wore  bunched  at  her 
swan-white  throat: 

“Come,  I will  stop  off  with  you  if  it  must  be. 
Let  me  see  the  paper.” 

Simultaneously  with  her,  the  gentleman  of  the 
home-spun  shawl  came  from  I don’t  know  where 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  231 


and  asked,  too,  to  see  the  paper  and  both  got 
off  the  train  with  me. 

I was  so  weak  that  I could  not  hold  my  baby, 
for  all  at  once  there  came  over  me  the  sense  of 
my  utter  helplessness  to  prove  that  my  child 
was  my  own.  There  was  no  one  to  whom  I 
could  telegraph  without  revealing  my  identity 
and  the  purpose  of  my  journey.  A telegram 
to  my  friends  at  home  would  alarm  them  and 
might  betray  me.  A message  to  my  Soldier 
would  jeopardize  his  safety,  for  he  would  surely 
come  to  me  at  once. 

“Look,  look!”  I said  to  the  magistrate  and 
officers  when  they  read  aloud  the  suspicions  and 
accusation  of  the  philanthropic  ladies  who  were 
with  me  on  hoard  the  Albany  steamer  and  who, 
in  their  zeal  to  secure  a right  and  correct  a 
wrong,  ignorant  of  the  cause  of  my  child’s 
discomfort  and  unhappiness  with  me  and  the 
reasons  for  my  rather  suspicious  reticence,  had 
caused  my  arrest. 

Thus  do  the  pure  and  holy  ever  keep  guard 
over  the  sins  of  the  world  and  throw  the  cable- 
cord  of  justice  around  the  unregenerate  to  drag 
them  perforce  into  the  path  of  rectitude.  May 
they  reap  the  reward  to  which  their  virtues 
entitle  them. 

“Look  at  his  eyes  and  look  at  mine,”  I ex- 
claimed, holding  his  little  face  up  against  my 


232  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


own.  “Can’t  you  all  see  that  it  is  my  child?” 

“That  may  be,  but  give  us  the  name  of  some 
one  to  whom  we  may  telegraph — some  tangible 
proof.  If  he  is  your  own  there  must  be  some 
one  who  knows  you  and  can  testify  in  your  be- 
half.” 

“No,  no,”  I said,  “there  is  no  one.  I have 
nobody  to  help  me,  and  if  God  does  not  show 
you  all  some  way  and  your  own  hearts  do  not 
convince  you  I don’t  know  what  I shall  do.” 

My  poor  little,  half-starved,  in-litigation  baby 
refused  to  be  comforted.  The  kind  gentleman 
with  the  shawl  could  amuse  him  no  longer.  He 
had  dashed  from  him  the  keys  and  pushed  the 
watch  from  his  ear  and  demanded  impatiently 
the  right  of  sustenance.  The  dear,  good  woman 
beside  me,  with  the  smile  of  the  redeemed  and 
a look  of  relief  lighting  up  her  face,  touched 
mine,  whispering  in  my  ear  while  I held  the 
baby’s  hands  to  prevent  him  in  his  impatience 
from  tearing  apart  my  mantle  and  untying  my 
bonnet-strings : 

“Do  you  nurse  your  baby?” 

“Yes,”  I replied,  “and  he  is  so  hungry,  poor 
little  thing.” 

She  stood  up,  leaning  on  her  cane,  for  she 
was  slightly  lame,  and  said  in  a voice  clear  and 
sweet : 

“Gentlemen,  I have  a witness” — my  heart  al- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  233 


most  stood  still — “here,  in  the  child  who  cannot 
speak.  It  is  not  always  a proof  of  motherhood, 
but  with  the  circumstantial  evidence  and  the 
youth  of  this  mother,  this  beyond  peradventure 
is  proof  convincing.  The  child  is  still  nour- 
ished from  her  own  body,”  and  she  opened  my 
mantle. 

I,  who  had  never  nursed  my  baby  in  the  pres- 
ence of  even  my  most  intimate  friends,  bared 
my  bosom  before  all  those  strange  men  and 
women  and  nursed  him  as  proof  that  I was  his 
mother,  while  tears  of  gratitude  to  the  sweet 
friend  and  to  God  flowed  down  my  cheeks  and 
dropped  onto  baby’s  face  as  he  wonderingly 
looked  up,  trying  to  gather  up  the  tears  with 
his  little  dimpled  fingers  and  thankfully  enjoy- 
ing the  proof.  The  men  turned  aside  and  tears 
flowed  down  more  than  one  rugged  face.  The 
kind  stranger  with  the  shawl  lifted  his  eyes 
heavenward  as  if  in  thanksgiving,  and  then 
turned  them  earthward  and  breathed  a bitter 
curse,  deep  and  heartfelt.  Perhaps  the  record- 
ing angel  jotted  down  the  curse  on  the  credit 
side  of  the  ledger  with  as  great  alacrity  as  he 
registered  there  the  prayer  of  thanks. 

I trust  that  the  philanthropic  ladies,  when 
the  facts  were  placed  before  them,  were  as 
surely  convinced  as  all  these  people  were  that 
I had  not  stolen  my  child.  I hope  they  were 


234  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


pleased  by  this  indication  that  some  degree  of 
innocence  existed  in  the  world,  outside  of  their 
own  virtuous  hearts,  but — I don’t  know. 

“Take  thy  fledgling,  poor  mother  dove,  under 
thy  trembling  wings,  back  to  its  nest  and  the 
father  bird’s  care.  I shall  go  a few  miles  fur- 
ther where  I stop  to  see  my  baby,”  said  my  new 
friend.  “This  little  boy  who  brought  me  back 
to  life  is  older  than  yours.  He  is  the  child  of 
my  only  son,  whose  young  life  ebbed  out  on  the 
battlefield  of  Gettysburg,  and  whose  sweet  spirit 
has  joined  that  of  his  noble  father,  my  husband, 
which  in  his  first  battle  was  freed.  This  baby 
blesses  our  lives — the  young  mother’s  and  the 
old  mother’s.” 

The  cars  were  crowded  with  soldiers  return- 
ing home,  disbanded  soldiers,  soldiers  on  fur- 
lough, and  released  prisoners,  with  pale,  cadav- 
erous, unshaven  faces  and  long,  unkempt  hair. 
One  from  Andersonville,  more  ragged  and 
emaciated  than  the  others,  was  selling  his  pic- 
tures and  describing  the  horrors  of  his  prison 
life  and,  as  he  told  of  his  sufferings  and  torture 
amid  groans  of  sympathy,  maledictions  and 
curses  were  hurled  against  my  people.  Once 
his  long,  bony  arm  and  hand  seemed  to  be 
stretched  menacingly  toward  me  as  he  drew  the 
picture  of  “the  martyred  Lincoln,  whose  blood 
cries  out  for  vengeance.  We  follow  his  hearse  ; 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  235 


let  us  swear  hatred  to  these  people  against 
whom  he  warred  and,  as  the  cannon  beats  the 
hours  with  solemn  progression,  renew  with  each 
note  unappeasable  hatred.” 

I crouched  back  in  my  seat,  almost  holding 
my  breath  as  I pressed  my  baby  to  my  wildly 
throbbing  heart.  The  train  stopped  and  the 
sweet  new  friend  touched  my  brow  with  her  lips, 
leaving  the  kiss  and  a prayer,  put  the  lilies  into 
my  hand  and  was  gone.  The  cars  moved  on 
and  there  was  a great  void  in  my  heart  as  I 
thought  of  my  God-given  friend,  so  lately  found, 
so  swiftly  lost. 

All  this  was  half  a century  ago,  but  one  of 
the  lilies  yet  lies  in  my  prayer-book,  glorifying 
with  the  halo  of  a precious  memory  the  page 
on  which  it  rests. 

A man,  not  a soldier  I think,  for  brave  sol- 
diers are  magnanimous  and  generous  always, 
stood  up  in  a seat  opposite  mine  and  said : 

“When  I think  of  the  horrors  of  Libby  and 
Andersonville  and  look  at  these  poor  sufferers 
I not  only  want  to  invoke  the  vengeance  of  a 
just  God  but  I want  to  take  a hand  in  it  myself. 
Quarter  should  he  shown  to  none;  every  man, 
woman  and  child  of  this  accursed  Southern  race 
should  be  bound  to  their  own  slaves  for  a speci- 
fied length  of  time,  that  they,  too,  might  know 
the  curse  of  serfdom.  Their  lands  should  be 


236  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


confiscated  and  given  to  those  whom  they  have 
so  long  and  so  cruelly  wronged.” 

As  he  in  detail  related  the  story  of  the  scanty 
allowance  of  the  prisoners,  the  filth  and  dark- 
ness of  their  cells,  I longed  to  stand  and  plead 
for  my  people,  and  tell  how  they,  too,  were  with- 
out soap,  food  or  clothes ; that  we  had  no  medi- 
cines, even,  except  what  were  smuggled  through 
the  lines,  and  that  our  own  poor  soldiers  were 
barefooted  and  starving,  and  that  all  the  suffer- 
ing of  prisoners  on  both  sides  could  have  been 
avoided  by  carrying  out  the  terms  proposed 
by  the  Confederate  Government.  If  I had  only 
dared  to  raise  the  veil  and  reveal  the  truth  per- 
haps sympathy  might  have  tempered  their  bit- 
terness, the  flame  of  divine  kinship  smouldering 
in  their  veins*  hidden  as  in  a tomb,  might  have 
miraged  over  the  gulf  of  wrongs  a bridge  of 
holier  feelings. 

Yet  the  memory  of  the  woman  whose  son  had 
been  killed  on  the  field  of  Gettysburg  and  whose 
lily,  now  browned  and  withered  with  the  years,  I 
cherish  with  such  tender  care,  softened  the  words 
that  were  like  blows  to  my  ear  and  heart.  Thus 
the  power  of  one  pure  heart  radiating  its  love 
upon  the  world  as  an  odorous  flower  diffuses 
fragrance  on  the  surrounding  atmosphere,  up- 
lifts the  sorrowing  spirit  and  strengthens  it  to 
withstand  the  rude  assaults  of  a vindictive  world. 


XXVII 

A FAMILIAR  FACE 

I HAD  no  stateroom  in  the  Lake  Champlain 
steamer,  and  my  little  sick  baby  and  its 
poor  tired  mother  were  very  thankful 
when,  after  the  long,  dreary  night,  they  wel- 
comed the  dawn  of  day  which  counted  them 
many  miles  nearer  to  their  Mecca. 

I have  forgotten  the  name  of  the  place  from 
which  we  took  the  train  for  Montreal  after  leav- 
ing the  steamer,  but  I remember  a fact  of  more 
consequence  concerning  it — that  it  was  the 
wrong  place. 

On  reaching  the  Canada  side  the  passengers 
were  summoned  to  the  custom-house  office  to 
have  their  baggage  examined,  and  I,  'with  my 
carpet-bag,  basket  and  baby,  followed  my  fel- 
low travelers.  When  my  turn  came  I handed 
the  officer  my  keys  and  checks,  which,  after  a 
glance,  he  gave  back  to  me,  saying  with  haste 
and  indifference,  as  if  it  might  have  been  the 
most  trivial  of  matters : 


237 


238  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


“Your  luggage  lias  been  left  on  the  States 
side.  Your  checks  were  not  exchanged.” 

Taking  the  wrong  train  at  the  wrong  point 
put  me  into  Montreal  later  than  I was  expected, 
but  I religiously  followed  instructions  to  remain 
on  the  train  which  stopped  over  at  Montreal, 
until  I should  be  claimed,  like  a general  delivery 
letter. 

Every  passenger  had  left  the  coach,  and  baby 
and  I were  alone.  I was  waiting  and  watching 
breathlessly  for  my  claimant,  when  my  hungry 
eyes  caught  sight  of  three  gentlemen  coming 
straight  toward  me.  It  was  with  but  a languid 
interest  that  I regarded  them,  for  I had  pre- 
conceived convictions  as  to  the  appearance  of 
the  one  who  should  assert  proprietary  rights 
over  me,  and  none  of  these  newcomers  seemed 
at  first  glance  adapted  to  respond  to  those  con- 
victions. The  face  of  one  seemed  rather  famil- 
iar, but  I was  not  sure,  so  I drew  my  little 
baby  closer  to  me  and  looked  the  other  way. 
I felt  them  coming,  and  felt  them  stop  by  my 
side. 

“What  will  you  have  of  me?”  I asked. 

There  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  gentleman 
whose  face  had  seemed  familiar,  and  the  next 
minute  baby  and  I were  in  his  great  strong 
arms,  and  his  tender  voice  was  reproachfully 
asking : 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  239 


“Don’t  you  know  your  husband,  little  one?” 

I was  looking  for  my  Soldier  as  I had  been 
used  to  seeing  him — dressed  in  the  dear  old 
Confederate  uniform,  and  with  his  hair  long 
and  curling.  The  beautiful  hair  had  been 
trimmed,  and  while  he  was  not  subject  to  the 
limitations  of  Samson  in  the  matter  of  personal 
strength,  a critical  observer  might  have  detected 
variations  in  personal  beauty.  An  English 
civilian  suit  of  rough  brown  cloth  had  replaced 
the  old  Confederate  gray. 

The  two  gentlemen  with  him  were  Mr.  Corse, 
a banker,  a brother  of  one  of  my  Soldier’s  briga- 
diers, and  Mr.  Symington,  of  Baltimore,  a 
refugee.  I noticed  that  these  gentlemen  called 
my  Soldier  “Mr.  Edwards”  and  me  “Mrs.  Ed- 
wards,” which  made  me  feel  somewhat  strange 
and  unnatural.  I may  have  reflected  that  I was 
in  a foreign  country,  and  very  far  north  of  our 
old  home,  and  perhaps  even  people’s  names 
were  affected  by  political  and  climatic  condi- 
tions. 

I had  expected  my  Soldier  to  take  us  to  a 
quiet  little  room  In  some  unpretentious  board- 
ing-house, but  was  too  tired  to  express  my  sur- 
prise when  we  were  driven  in  a handsome  car- 
riage to  a palatial  home,  with  beautiful  grounds, 
fountain  and  flowers.  A big  English  butler  with 
side-whiskers  opened  the  large  carved  doors, 


240  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


and  a pretty  girl  in  a cap  took  baby  from  my 
arms. 

After  that  I remember  only  being  tired — so 
tired — so  very  tired.  When  I had  rested  enough 
to  think  again,  I was  on  a sofa  dressed  in  a 
pretty,  soft,  silken  robe,  and  I heard  a kind 
voice  saying: 

“The  lady  is  better ; she  will  be  all  right.  Let 
her  sleep.” 

Glancing  up,  I saw  a benevolent-looking  old 
gentleman  and  a pair  of  spectacles.  I closed 
my  eyes  and  heard  the  gentleman  with  the 
familiar  face  say  such  beautiful  things,  and  his 
voice  and  touch  thrilled  my  heart  so  that  I kept 
my  eyes  shut  and  never  wanted  to  open  them 
again;  and  presently  the  pretty  girl  with  the 
cap  on  came  in  with  baby  in  her  arms,  dressed 
in  a beautiful  robe. 

“Ze  petite  enfant- — very  much  no  hungry  now 
— he  eat  tres  pap — he  sleeps — he  wash — he  dress 
— he  eat  tres  much.  He  no  hungry ; he  eat  some 
more  tres  much  again.  He  smile;  he  now  no 
very  much  hungry  again  some  more.” 

Was  I in  the  land  of  fairies,  and  was  the 
gentleman  with  the  familiar  face  the  prince  of 
fairies,  as  he  was  the  prince  of  lovers?  Our 
baby’s  outstretched  arms  and  cry  for  me  as  he 
recognized  me  dispelled  any  such  delusion,  but 
I was  too  tired  to  hold  out  my  hands  to  him. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  241 


I soon  felt  His  little  face,  however,  nestling  close 
against  my  own,  and  felt,  too,  the  touch  of  yet 
another  face,  and  heard  the  same  voice  which 
had  made  my  heart  thrill  with  bliss  whisper 
again  more  things  like  unto  those  other  things  it 
had  whispered,  but  I was  too  tired  and  too 
happy  to  speak,  and  my  blessings  seemed  too 
sacred  to  open  my  eyes  upon,  so  I kept  them 
closed.  When  the  old  English  physician  came 
in  the  next  day  he  said : 

“Ah,  ha!  Ah,  ha!  The  lady  is  most  well. 
Keep  on  feeding  her  and  sleeping  her.  She  is 
half-starved,  poor  lady,  and  half-dazed,  too,  by 
sleeplessness.  Ah,  ha!  Ah,  ha!  Poor  lady! 
That  will  do — feed  her  and  sleep  her;  feed  her 
and  sleep  her.  Ah,  ha ! Ah,  ha ! that’s  all.” 

When  the  old  doctor  was  gone  I remember 
listening  for  the  tread  of  the  sentinel  outside — 
confusing  the  “ah,  ha ! ah,  ha !”  with  the  tramp, 
tramp,  tramp — and  as  I asked,  the  question 
brought  back  the  memory  that  the  war  was  over, 
the  guns  were  stacked,  the  camp  was  broken, 
and  my  Soldier  of  the  sweet  face  was  all  my 
very  own.  I looked  around  inquiringly  and  up 
into  the  familiar  face  for  answer,  and  he,  my 
Soldier,  a General  no  longer,  explained  our 
pleasant  surroundings.  His  old  friends,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  James  Hutton,  he  said,  had  been  sud- 
denly summoned  to  England,  and  had  prayed 


242  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


him,  as  a great  favor  to  them,  to  be  their  guest 
until  their  return,  as  otherwise  the  delay  to 
make  the  necessary  arrangements  for  their 
going  would  prevent  their  catching  the  first 
steamer.  Thus  we  had  a beautiful  home  in 
which  to  rest,  to  grow  well  and  strong,  to  forget 
all  that  could  be  forgotten  of  the  past,  and  to 
enjoy  the  present. 

While  in  Canada  we  received  letters  telling 
us  of  the  troubles  that  had  come  upon  our  people 
after  the  close  of  the  war,  but  the  saddest  news 
was  of  the  suffering  of  Mr.  Davis  for  whole  gen- 
erations of  national  mistakes.  Captain  Bright, 
who  had  served  on  my  Soldier’s  staff,  wrote 
that,  through  his  kinsman,  the  surgeon  in  charge 
of  Fortress  Monroe,  he  had  been  permitted  to 
see  Mr.  Davis. 

He  arrived  at  the  Fortress  on  the  morning 
that  the  fetters  had  been  removed  from  the 
ankles  of  the  feeble  old  man  by  order  of  the 
physician,  because  they  endangered  the  life  of 
one  so  ill  and  weak,  and  was  told  by  the  surgeon 
that  the  only  way  for  him  to  see  Mr.  Davis  was 
to  accompany  the  surgeon  on  his  rounds,  when 
he  could  see  all  the  patients,  the  ex-President 
among  the  rest. 

The  captain  followed  the  surgeon  until  he 
came  to  the  imprisoned  chief.  The  face  of  Mr. 
Davis  was  turned  from  the  door  and  the  visitor 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  243 


stood  for  a moment  silently  observing  the  great 
change  in  the  man  whom  he  had  last  seen  as 
the  President  of  the  Confederacy.  Then  he 
stepped  forward  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  arm 
of  Mr.  Davis. 

“Mr.  President !”  he  said  reverently. 

Mr.  Davis  looked  up  quickly. 

“I  am  Robert  Bright,  of  General  Pickett’s 
staff.” 

The  hand  of  the  prisoner  closed  warmly  over 
the  one  lying  upon  his  arm.  “He  looked  into 
my  face  as  if  a miracle  had  been  performed,” 
wrote  Captain  Bright. 

“My  own!  One  of  my  own  again!”  said  Mr. 
Davis,  in  that  musical  voice  that  held  a note  of 
heart-break  always  after  the  fall  of  the  Con- 
federacy— a cadence  which  deepened  and  sad- 
dened his  melodious  tones  until  they  were 
merged  into  the  perfect  symphony  of  the  greater 
life. 

In  his  loneliness  he  had  so  yearned  for  some 
one  who  had  belonged  to  him — some  one  who 
had  taken  part  with  him  in  that  short-lived, 
tragic  dream-nation  for  which  the  South  had 
given  her  blood  and  treasure — that  his  heart 
leaped  up  to  meet  the  sympathy  of  the  tender, 
reverent  voice. 

The  surgeon  came  up  to  make  his  morning 
examination.  At  sight  of  him  the  light  in  the 


244  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


sad  face  died  away  and  the  look  of  helpless 
suffering  returned.  Having  finished  his  work 
the  surgeon  said: 

“Come,  Captain.” 

“And  is  this  all?”  asked  Mr.  Davis,  as  his 
visitor  passed  on  and  again  reverently  touched 
his  arm. 

“I  would  have  given  my  whole  fortune,”  wrote 
the  captain,  who  had  just  succeeded  to  an  inheri- 
tance of  considerable  value,  “to  have  stayed 
there  in  his  place  and  let  him  go  free.” 

“There  is  not  one  of  us  in  all  the  South,  not 
a soldier  of  us,  who  would  not  gladly  take  his 
place  and  save  him  from  humiliation  and  suffer- 
ing,” said  my  Soldier,  looking  up  from  the  letter. 

Captain  Bright  pleaded  with  his  kinsman  to 
let  him  make  another  visit  and  stay  long  enough 
to  speak  some  word  of  cheer  to  his  heartbroken 
chief. 

“I  do  not  think  that  I can,”  said  the  surgeon. 
“The  risk  to  us  all  would  be  too  great.” 

“I  do  not  see  any  risk,”  was  the  reply.  “The 
whole  place  is  double-guarded.  Neither  that  poor 
old  feeble  man  nor  I could  possibly  get  away.” 

As  the  surgeon  really  wished  to  serve  his 
kinsman,  not  only  in  return  for  past  favors  but 
to  be  gracious  as  a host,  after  reflection  he  said : 

“To-morrow  when  I make  my  rounds  I will 
try  to  arrange  to  leave  you  there  till  I return.” 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  245 


The  nest  day  the  captain  went  into  the  cell 
and  the  surgeon,  closing  the  door,  turned  to  the 
sentinel  and  said: 

“Guard  that  door  well  and  see  that  it  is  not 
opened  until  I come  back.  That  man  in  there  is 
my  relation,  hut  we  must  not  trust  him  too  far.” 

Having  thus  secured  for  the  caller  an  unin- 
terrupted interview  with  Mr.  Davis,  the  surgeon 
continued  on  his  way. 

“Mr.  Davis,  I have  only  a few  moments  be- 
fore the  doctor  finishes  his  round.  Can  I do 
anything  for  you? — anything?  Tell  me,  quick.” 

“No ; there  is  nothing,  my  young  friend — noth- 
ing ; but  I thank  you  for  the  wish.” 

The  captain  took  from  his  pocket  a cheque- 
book and  pencil,  saying : 

“Write  on  the  backs  of  these  cheques  any 
messages  or  letters  you  may  want  to  send  and 
I will  see  that  they  reach  their  destination.” 

Mr.  Davis  replied: 

“I  cannot  do  that.  No;  you  would  be  risking 
your  life.” 

“I  have  risked  my  life  before  and  now  would 
risk  my  soul  for  you.  But  there  is  no  danger, 
Mr.  President.” 

Mr.  Davis  wrote  messages  on  three  of  the 
cheques,  one  to  Senator  Wall,  of  New  Jersey, 
one  to  a friend  in  Pennsylvania,  a third  to  an- 
other friend  whose  name  I have  forgotten. 


246  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


“Yon  can  write  to  Mrs.  Davis  that  you  have 
seen  me.  Take  my  love  to  all  my  friends.  I 
leave  them  in  Cod’s  care.  This  means  to  me 
more  than  all  the  doctor’s  medicine — this  one 
glimpse  of  one  who  says,  ‘Mr.  President’ — who 
comes  to  me  and  recognizes  all  that  I have  tried 
to  do  for  my  people.” 

Just  as  the  cheque-book  was  returned  to  its 
place  the  surgeon  came  in,  looking  at  him  sus- 
piciously. Seeing  nothing,  and  knowing  that 
there  was  no  pen,  ink  or  paper  in  the  room,  he 
went  out,  followed  by  the  visitor. 

Early  next  day  Captain  Bright  left  for 
Williamsburg.  When  he  and  the  surgeon  were 
on  the  wharf  some  soldiers  came  forward. 

“Halt!”  commanded  the  captain. 

“What  does  this  mean?”  asked  the  surgeon. 

“We  are  ordered  to  search  this  gentleman,” 
was  the  explanation. 

“This  gentleman  is  my  kinsman  and  my 
guest,”  said  the  surgeon. 

After  consultation  with  the  officers  the  em- 
barrassment was  relieved  by  the  countermand- 
ing of  the  order  and  Captain  Bright  departed 
with  the  precious  messages  in  his  pocket. 

“The  feeling  of  fear,”  he  wrote,  “came  to  me 
for  the  first  time  in  all  my  life ; not  for  myself 
but  for  that  beloved  old  man  who  is  dear  now  to 
us  all.” 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  247 


Mr.  Davis  had  not  lived  through  those  terrible 
four  years  without  making  enemies.  Who  in 
such  a position  could  ? But  when  he  was  made 
to  suffer  for  the  mistakes  of  the  whole  nation, 
every  Southern  heart  went  out  in  love  to  him, 
regardless  of  past  antagonisms.  All  personal 
animosities,  all  political  differences  were  for- 
gotten, and  the  people  were  united  in  a loving 
sympathy  with  the  toil-worn,  feeble,  sorrowful 
old  man,  as  they  never  could  have  been  by  any 
gifts  or  favors  which  he  might  have  heaped 
upon  them  had  he  won  not  only  the  object  for 
which  he  had  given  his  life,  but  the  gold  and 
jewels  of  a kingdom. 

A generation  later,  when  the  people  of  the 
South  met  in  Richmond  to  dedicate  a monument 
to  Jefferson  Davis,  they  did  not  hold  first  in 
their  hearts  the  memory  of  the  statesman,  the 
orator,  the  gracious  gentleman,  the  President 
of  the  Confederacy.  Above  all  the  pictures  that 
came  thronging  before  them,  as  they  recalled  the 
life  history  of  the  man  in  whose  honor  they 
had  met,  was  that  scene  in  the  gloomy  cell  and 
that  bowed  and  feeble  old  man  with  the  wounds 
of  the  irons  upon  him,  in  whose  sad  eyes  the 
light  of  love  shone  as  he  reached  out  to  greet 
a messenger  of  his  own  people  and  said  brok- 
enly: “My  own!  One  of  my  own!” 


XXVIII 


VISITORS,  SHILLING  A DOZEN OUR  LEFT-HANDERS 

THE  first  week  in  June  the  French  maid 
came  to  our  room  with  a telegram  for 
Mr.  Edwards,  announcing  that  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hutton  would  sail  for  home  the  following 
week. 

We  began  to  hunt  for  a place  to  live,  begin- 
ning with  the  hotels  and  larger  boarding-houses, 
and  ending  with  the  smaller  ones.  After  a week 
of  varied,  and  some  very  funny,  experiences,  we 
decided  at  last  upon  one  house,  principally  be- 
cause of  its  attractive  court  overlooked  by  pleas- 
ant verandas. 

“With  its  glistening  fountain  and  pretty 
shrubbery  and  flowers,  how  nice  for  our  baby,” 
I said.  “How  cool  and  refreshing  are  the  sound 
of  the  water  and  the  glimpse  of  green.” 

So,  for  baby’s  sake,  the  selection  was  made 
and  our  rooms  engaged.  Our  landlady  was  a 
very  dark  brunette,  and  prided  herself  upon  be- 
ing a French  Canadian,  but 


248 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  249 


“That  man  of  mine,”  she  sorrowfully  said, 
“is  a soggy  Englishman,  and  you  would  hardly 
believe  it  possible  he  could  be  the  father  of 
our  two  beautiful  daughters.  Both  of  them  are 
going  to  do  well,  but  they  don’t  take  after  their 
pa.  The  oldest  is  engaged  to  be  married  to  a 
Stateser  with  nine  businesses  !” 

By  the  “nine  businesses”  and  “Stateser”  I 
gathered  from  her  explanation,  which  she  volun- 
teered in  answer  to  my  puzzled  look,  that  the 
fortunate  son-in-law-to-be  was  a Yankee  living 
in  a small  town  in  the  State  of  Vermont,  and 
owning  a little  country  store  where  woolen  and 
cotton  goods,  silks  and  flannels,  pottery,  queen’s- 
ware,  hardware,  groceries,  grain,  and  so  forth, 
were  sold,  the  precursor  of  the  department 
store.  In  her  admiration  of  him,  after  each 
alleged  “business”  she  affixed  the,  to  her,  high- 
sounding  title  of  “merchant.” 

The  second  daughter,  she  told  me,  was  learn- 
ing to  sing. 

“She  has  a sweet  voice,  but  she  don’t  take 
after  her  pa,”  she  said,  “and  the  young  preacher 
student  in  the  next  room  to  the  right  of  the  one 
you  have  chosen  is  very  much  taken  with  her, 
and  it  looks  like  I’d  get  both  girls  off  my  hands 
before  long.” 

She  said  she  could  not  give  me  the  use  of 
the  parlors  when  the  girls  wanted  them. 


250  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


“The  Stateser  comes  a long  ways,  you  know, 
and  has  to  have  it  all  to  himself  when  he  is 
here.” 

She  generously  suggested  that  if  none  “of 
them”  were  using  the  parlor  at  the  time  when 
my  “company  came,”  she  would  let  me  entertain 
my  visitors  in  it  at  the  rate  of  a “shilling  a 
dozen,”  which  arrangement  I considered  a very 
good  one  for  me,  as  I did  not  expect  to  have 
more  than  a shilling’s  worth  of  visitors  in  six 
months. 

Our  meals  were  to  be  served  in  our  own  room, 
except  on  Sundays,  when  we  would  dine  in  the 
public  dining-room  and  do  our  own  “waiting,” 
like  the  others.  We  did  not  exactly  understand 
what  that  meant,  but  one  day’s  experience 
proved  it  to  be  anything  but  comfortable.  The 
dinner  had  all  been  cooked  on  Saturday  and  was 
cut  up  and  piled  on  the  table  in  the  center  of 
the  room,  and  we  served  ourselves.  I could  not 
help  thinking  of  the  time  when  my  Soldier  had 
been  served  by  butlers  and  waiters,  each  anxious 
to  be  the  first  to  anticipate  his  wishes,  and  all 
feeling  amply  rewarded  for  every  effort  by  a 
pleasant  word  or  an  appreciative  smile.  I won- 
dered how  any  one  of  those  obsequious  attend- 
ants would  feel  to  see  us  now. 

The  following  menu  was  about  the  average 
dinner  (with  the  exception,  of  course,  that  on 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  251 


week-days  it  was  warm) : Corned  beef,  mutton 
pie,  potato  salad,  pickled  snap-beans,  goose- 
berry tarts  and  milk.  Our  breakfast  was  always 
cold;  the  first  one  was  cold  bread,  preserves,  a 
baked  partridge  (which  is  the  same  as  our 
pheasant),  and  delicious  coffee  and  butter. 

Our  rooms  had  one  discomfort:  we  were 
awakened  every  morning  by  the  young  lady, 
who  made  love  to  the  bird  of  her  preacher  beau 
while  she  arranged  his  room. 

“Dear  ’ittle  birdie! — birdie  dot  a Dod? — 
birdie  dot  a soul? — ’ittle  birdie  sings  praises  to 
Doddie?” 

A sound  as  of  the  door  opening,  a rustling 
and  a confused  “Oh,  dear!”  and  then  “Good 
morning”  was  followed  by  the  invariable  excuse 
for  not  having  finished  tidying  up  the  room  and 
cage  before  he  came,  “because  birdie  and  I are 
such  friends — ain’t  we,  birdie?— and  time  slips 
so  quickly — don’t  it,  birdie?” 

I would  know  she  was  being  forgiven,  though 
I could  hear  only  the  sounds  of  his  deep,  low 
tones  between  the  chirping  to — birdie,  of  course. 
Neither  my  husband  nor  I meant  to  listen  to 
these  chirpings  to — birdie,  of  course,  and  I al- 
ways put  my  fingers  in  his  ears  at  the  sound  of 
them. 

After  our  breakfast  was  over  and  baby  had 
been  made  comfortable,  I usually  sent  him  out 


252  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


for  His  walk  with  Annie  McCarthy,  his  new 
nurse,  who  was  delighted  at  having  him  all  to 
herself. 

“Sliure,  and  I’ll  not  be  having  the  interference 
of  so  many  others  whose  rasponsability  I don’t 
be  a-wanting;  for  the  bairn,  God  save  him,  was 
afther  being  that  kissed,  his  dinner  wouldn’ 
agray  with  him  at  all,  at  all.  There  was  the 
cook  and  John’s  wife  and  John  and  the  coach- 
man and  that  ugly  French  Lizette  (sorra  a bit 
am  I to  be  rid  of  her,  the  vain  prig)  would  be 
all  afther  kissing  him  until  he’d  be  that  sick  his 
milk  would  curdle  in  him,  and  for  the  loife  of  me 
I couldn’t  be  kaping  the  clothes  clane  on  him 
with  all  their  crumpling  and  handling;  and  it’s 
glad  that  I am  entirely,  the  saints  save  us,  hav- 
ing him  to  mesilf,  the  blissed  child !” 

The  rooms  were  comfortable,  and  we  found 
the  long  veranda,  where  we  spent  our  evenings 
and  most  of  our  mornings,  not  only  a very  pleas- 
ant change,  but  a source  of  amusement  as  well. 
My  curiosity  was  greatly  excited  concerning  our 
neighbors  on  the  left.  I was  uncertain  how 
many  there  were  of  them,  though  I put  them 
down  in  my  mind  as  not  less  than  half  a dozen. 

The  first  morning  these  “Left-handers,”  as  I 
called  them,  were  as  silent  as  the  grave  till 
about  noon,  when,  all  at  once,  without  any  pre- 
monitory noises,  they  began  a most  animated 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  253 


conversation,  interspersed  with  laughter,  mirth- 
ful and  scornful.  The  tones  of  their  voices 
would  change  from  anger  to  reproach  and  then 
to  grief,  so  that  at  one  time  I was  so  full  of 
sympathy  with  the  poor  man  who  was  being 
driven  out  into  the  cold  world  that  it  was  all  I 
could  do  to  refrain  from  going  in  and  pleading 
for  him;  but  while  I was  hesitating  the  trouble 
ceased.  I supposed  he  was  gone  and  all  was 
over  with  him,  and  involuntarily  offered  up  a 
prayer — the  only  help  I could  give. 

Imagine,  if  you  can,  my  surprise  when  the 
next  morning  at  a little  later  hour  I heard  a 
repetition  of  the  same  painful  scene.  The  poor 
man  had  returned,  I reasoned.  Taking  them 
all  together,  I thought  they  certainly  were  a 
most  peculiar  family,  and  I determined  to  en- 
list my  husband’s  interest  when  he  returned. 
Something  had  prevented  my  telling  him  the 
day  before.  That  evening  as  we  were  sitting  on 
the  veranda  I carried  my  resolution  into  effect 
and,  though  he  listened  with  his  usual  sweet 
patience,  my  description  of  the  disturbance,  to 
my  surprise,  excited  in  him  more  mirth  than 
sympathy. 

Just  as  I had  finished  telling  my  story,  our 
baby  was  brought  in  to  be  enjoyed  and  put  to 
sleep.  “The  little  pig  went  to  market,”  “the 
mouse  ran  up  the  clock,”  “the  cock-horse”  was 


254  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


ridden  “to  Banbury  Cross,”  and  after  innumer- 
able “Hobble-de-gees,”  baby  was  ready,  and  so 
were  we,  for  liis  “Bye  Baby  Bunting.” 

When  his  sweet  little  “ah-ah-ah”  accompany- 
ing ours  grew  fainter  and  fainter,  we  began  to 
sing  in  the  Chinook  jargon  the  Lord’s  Prayer, 
which  my  husband  had  taught  the  Indians  on  the 
Pacific  coast,  and  which  we  always  sang  at  the 
last  to  make  baby’s  sleep  sound.  At  the  words, 
“Kloshe  mika  tumtum  kopa  illakie,  kahkwa 
kopa  sagkalie”  (Thy  will  be  done  on  earth  as 
it  is  in  heaven),  from  through  the  open  door 
of  the  room  to  our  left  a voice  clear  and  sweet 
joined  in  the  same  jargon  with  ours  to  “Our 
Father,”  and  as  the  last  invocation  was  chanted, 
“Mahsh  siali  kopa  nesika  konaway  massackie— 
Kloshe  kahkwa”  (Send  away  from  us  all  evil — 
Amen),  a handsome  stranger  stepped  out  and, 
with  outstretched  hand,  said  to  my  Soldier,  with 
great  cordiality,  “Klahowya  sikhs,  potlatch 
lemah”  (How  do  you  do,  friend;  give  me  your 
good  hand).  Then  followed  a conversation  be- 
tween them  about  the  Pacific  coast,  Fort  Van- 
couver, San  Juan  Island,  Puget  Sound,  the  Sno- 
homish tribe  and  their  many  mutual  friends  of 
the  Salmon  Illehe. 

All  the  while  I was  wondering  what  could 
have  become  of  the  other  family — if  they  had 
gone — and  yet  now  and  then  I caught  a tone  in 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  255 


our  visitor’s  voice  as  lie  talked  to  my  Soldier, 
that  sounded  very  similar  to  tlie  tones  of  the 
man  in  trouble  belonging  to  them,  though  I did 
not  see  how  it  would  be  possible  for  any  one  to 
drive,  or  wish  to  drive,  him  out  of  one’s  home. 
When,  after  awhile,  I came  in  for  the  compli- 
ments of  the  season,  my  astonishment  knew  no 
bounds  when  I learned  that  he  had  been  the  sole 
occupant  of  that  room  since  Sunday  night. 

The  clock  in  the  court  struck  seven.  Eising 
hastily,  and  with  many  apologies,  this  strange- 
family  man  wrote  something  on  his  card,  and 
handing  it  to  my  husband,  said,  “I  am  playing 
at  the  theater  here  to-night — come  and  see  me,” 
and  was  gone. 

To  this  kind  stranger,  William  Florence,  I 
was  indebted  for  my  first  taste  of  the  pleasures 
of  the  theater.  Almost  every  evening  he  joined 
us  on  the  veranda,  shared  our  play  with  baby, 
cheered  and  entertained  the  General,  and  kindly 
took  us  afterward  to  see  the  play.  Yet,  during 
the  whole  of  his  stay- — four  days — he  never  once, 
in  the  most  remote  way,  intruded  himself  upon 
our  confidence;  and  though  he  knew  there  was 
some  mystery,  in  his  innate  delicacy  he  made 
no  allusion  to  it. 

On  Saturday  evening,  when  his  engagement 
was  over  and  he  came  to  say  good-bye,  after 
lingering  over  the  pleasant  evenings  we  had 


256  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


passed  together,  and  putting  great  stress  upon 
the  benefit  they  had  been  to  him,  he  stopped 
abruptly,  saying: 

“Confound  it  all!  Forgive  me,  if  I put  my 
foot  in  it — but  here  is  something  to  buy  a rattle 
for  the  youngster.  I swear  I absolutely  have  no 
use  for  it.  In  fact,  I never  had  so  much  money 
at  one  time  before  in  my  whole  life,  and  it  be- 
longs by  rights  to  the  young  rascal ; for,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  ‘cat’s  in  the  fiddle,’  the  ‘cow 
jumping  over  the  moon,’  ‘getting  the  poor  dog  a 
bone,’  and  ‘Our  Father  who  art  in  heaven,’  I 
should  have  spent  every  red  cent  of  it  on  the  fel- 
lows. Please — I insist,”  he  said,  as  my  husband 
refused.  “I  know  you  have  had  more  money 
than  you  seem  to  be  bothered  with  now;  take 
this.” 

Though  we  were  both  very  much  touched  by 
the  kind  generosity  of  this  stranger  in  a strange 
land,  my  Soldier  was  firm  in  his  refusal. 

“Well,  good-bye  and  good  luck  to  you,”  he 
said.  “You  are  as  obstinate  as  an  ‘allegory  on 
the  banks  of  the  Nile.’  Here  it  goes,”  putting 
the  fifty  dollars  back  into  his  pocket,  and  turn- 
ing to  me,  with  a tone  I so  well  remembered,  he 
wished  me  happiness. 

“Good-bye,”  I said;  “may  ‘Our  Father’  who 
art  in  heaven  and  his  little  ones  of  whom  he 
says  ‘suffer  to  come  unto  me,’  keep  your  heart 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  257 


thoughtful  for  others,  and  gentle  and  kind  all 
through  this  life.  Believe  in  soul  and  be  very 
sure  of  God.” 

In  all  the  years  that  came  afterward  the 
friendship  formed  then  between  my  husband 
and  our  first  “Left-hander”  was  never  broken 
— and  to  me  it  was  a legacy. 

The  following  week  I noticed  his  rooms  were 
taken  by  a lady  and  gentleman  whose  actions 
were  very  strange.  I saw  there  were  two  of 
them  this  time.  The  second  evening,  as  I was 
putting  baby,  who  was  unusually  restless  and 
fretful  and  would  not  be  amused  or  comforted, 
to  sleep,  the  queer  lady,  with  a “Banquo-is-bur- 
ied-and-can-not-come-out-of-liis-grave”  tone  and 
manner,  came  in  and  said,  “The  child — is’t  ill, 
or  doth  it  need  the  rod  withal?”  Whether  the 
child  needed  “the  rod  withal”  or  Mrs.  Winslow’s 
soothing  syrup,  he  stopped  crying  at  once  and, 
while  she  talked  on,  he  never  took  his  startled 
eyes  from  her  face  till  he  wearily  closed  them, 
hypnotized  to  sleep. 

“Hast  thou  a nurse — one  that  thou  call’st 
trustworthy?”  she  asked,  after  I had  put  the 
baby  in  his  little  bed. 

“Yes,  madam,”  I answered,  “one  whose  love 
makes  her  so.” 

“It  is  well”  she  said,  “and  if  thou  dost  not 
fear  to  leave  the  watch  with  her,  wilt  thou  and 


258  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


thy  husband  come  as  our  guests  to  see  our  Ham- 
let as  we  have  conceived  him  to  be?” 

It  was  the  first  of  Shakespeare’s  plays  I had 
ever  seen,  and  my  blood  ran  cold  as  I breath- 
lessly watched  the  portrayal  of  it  by  these,  the 
most  celebrated  actors  of  their  day  (Charles 
Kean  and  his  wife,  Ellen  Tree),  with  talents  so 
versatile  that  I cried  over  the  tragedy  as  if  my 
heart  would  break,  and  laughed  with  equal 
heartiness  over  “Toodles,”  the  farce  which  fol- 
lowed. 

At  the  close  of  the  play  the  actress  brought 
her  husband  into  the  box  and  introduced  him. 
Unlike  her,  he  did  all  his  acting  on  the  stage; 
she  stabbed  her  potatoes  and  said,  “What!  no 
b-e-a-n-s  ?” 

We  accepted  their  kind  invitation  to  share 
their  carriage  back  to  the  house,  and  enjoyed, 
too,  some  of  the  delicious  supper  prepared  for 
them.  It  was  their  last  year  on  the  stage,  and 
I never  saw  them  again,  though  I treasure  their 
little  keepsake,  given  me  in  exchange  for  one 
not  half  so  pretty,  and  gratefully  remember  the 
pleasure  they  put  into  our  lives  during  the  days 
they  were  our  “Left-handers.” 

Among  others,  there  came  in  time  that  king 
of  comedians,  noble  in  mind  as  he  was  perfect 
in  art,  Joe  Jefferson.  This  pleasant  acquaint- 
ance did  not  end  with  our  Canadian  experience. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  259 


The  next  time  we  saw  Joe  Jefferson  he  gave  a 
performance  in  Richmond  and  turned  over  the 
whole  proceeds  to  a war-ruined  Confederate 
who  had  assisted  him  in  early  days,  all  in  such 
a quiet  manner  as  to  fulfill  the  spirit  of  the 
Scriptural  injunction  regarding  the  right  and 
left  hands.  The  kindness  which  was  shown  by 
the  wealthy  tobacconist — the  seeming  favorite 
of  fortune — to  the  poor  lad  in  the  beginning  of 
that  career  the  distinction  of  which,  even  then, 
could  be  foretold,  was  thus  gracefully  repaid 
a thousand  times  by  the  successful  actor. 

Our  landlady  made  a tour  of  inspection  of  all 
the  rooms  every  Friday,  but  to  us  she  made  her 
visits  longer  each  time,  showing  a growing  in- 
terest in  our  affairs.  She  could  not  solve  the 
mystery  of  our  having  come  from  such  a 
palatial  home  to  her  boarding-house.  Then,  too, 
one  of  my  “shilling  visitors”  happening  to  be 
the  Governor-General  and  another  an  English 
officer,  they  were  also  a cause  of  wonder.  She 
was  so  insistent  in  this  unbounded  curiosity 
that  we  were  compelled  to  seek  a larger  house 
where  we  should  be  more  lost  to  sight,  especially 
as  just  at  this  time  two  prominent  Southern 
gentlemen,  Mr.  Beverly  Tucker  and  Mr.  Beverly 
Saunders,  had  been  gagged  and  taken  through 
the  lines,  though  their  release  was  immediately 
demanded  by  the  English  government. 


260  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


Much  to  my  husband’s  relief,  I volunteered  to 
assume  the  disagreeable  task  of  notifying  her, 
which  notice  she  seemed  intuitively  to  have  an- 
ticipated and  determined  to  thwart  by  telling 
of  her  troubles,  all  of  which  she  laid  at  her  hus- 
band’s door. 

“He  is  got  so  high-minded  now,”  she  said,  “he 
refuses  to  blacken  all  the  boots  at  night — leaves 
the  top  floor  ones  till  morning.  Wants  to  set 
upstairs  with  me  and  the  girls,  instead  of  stay- 
ing down  in  the  kitchen,  looking  for  chaws  and 
to  be  handy ; expects  us  to  hunt  tins  to  shine  and 
mend,  and  nails  to  drive ; won’t  eat  the  hoarders’ 
leavings;  reads  the  Stateser’s  newspaper  that 
he  sends  to  his  girl ; sets  on  it  when  he  hears  us 
coming;  took  money  from  Stateser,  too,  and 
was  that  sly  he  was  going  to  spend  it  on  himself, 
and  I giving  him  all  he  needs.” 

Taking  advantage  of  her  pause  for  sympathy, 
I edged  in  my  notice.  She  immediately  put  all 
the  blame  of  our  going  on  “that  Johnson,”  and, 
though  I assured  her  that  he  had  nothing  what- 
ever to  do  with  it,  wailed : 

“You  can’t  fool  us,  you  can’t  fool  us — he 
drives  every  boarder  out  of  the  house.” 

Our  next  rooms  opened  on  the  Champs  de 
Mars,  the  attractions  of  which  in  part  made  up 
for  the  loss  of  the  veranda,  but  not  for  that  of  our 
“Left-handers,”  who  had  made  oases  in  our  lives. 


XXIX 


BORN  WITH  EMERALDS NEMO  NOCETUR 

OME,  look  at  the  soldiers,”  I said,  as  I 


saw  a shadow  in  the  General’s  smile  and 


heard  a sigh  when  the  music,  almost  un- 
der our  very  windows,  signaled  the  hour  for 
dress-parade. 

The  shadowy  ghost  of  despair  vanished  with 
my  entreaties,  as  we  stood  at  the  window  and 
watched  the  soldiers,  keeping  time  with  them  to 
step  and  tune  outwardly,  while  hiding  the 
muffled  sound  within,  each  playing  we  were  en- 
joying it,  without  one  marring  thought  of  the 
crumpled-browed  past,  trying  to  fool  each  other 
till  we  really  fooled  ourselves.  It  was  with 
thankfulness  that  I saw  my  Soldier  watch  with 
unfeigned  interest  the  maneuvers  of  the  troops 
day  after  day,  and  pleasantly  welcome  reveille 
and  tattoo.  Our  baby  learned  to  march  almost 
before  he  walked. 

While  we  were  enjoying  our  congenial  sur- 
roundings and  each  other,  spite  of  poverty, 


261 


262  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


fears  for  the  future,  and  grief  for  the  past,  my 
husband  became  very  ill.  In  the  crisis  of  his 
illness,  when  he  required  all  my  attention,  our 
baby  was  seized  with  croup.  The  kind  old  Eng- 
lishman, recommended  by  my  good  friends,  was 
very  attentive,  but  failed  to  inspire  me  with  my 
wonted  faith.  The  chief  reason,  I think,  must 
have  been  that  he  was  not  called  “Doctor,”  but 
“Mister.”  For  two  weeks  he  came  once,  and 
sometimes  twice  a day,  going  first  to  see  and 
bring  me  news  of  the  baby,  who  had  been 
kindly  taken  by  our  friends  to  their  home  to 
be  cared  for.  I was  a source  of  unending 
amusement,  an  unsolvable  mystery  to  the 
English  doctor,  though  we  were  very  good 
friends. 

During  all  this  long  illness  I never  once 
stopped  to  consider  the  cost  of  anything, 
whether  it  were  food,  medicines  or  delicacies  of 
any  kind,  if  prescribed  or  suggested,  but  pur- 
chased regardless  of  expense.  When  the  dan- 
ger was  past,  and  our  board  bill  was  sent  up,  I 
counted  over  our  little  store  and  found  there 
was  not  enough  left  to  meet  it. 

My  husband  was  still  too  ill  to  be  annoyed 
or  troubled  about  anything,  and  with  the  bill 
hidden  away  in  my  pocket,  I was  making  a plan 
of  battle  and  maneuvering  how  I could  fight  my 
way  out  of  the  intrencliments,  when  he  noticed 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  263 


that  I was  looking  pale,  and  suggested  that  I 
go  out  for  a little  fresh  air. 

Eagerly  taking  advantage  of  the  excuse  thus 
offered,  I put  on  my  bonnet  and  went  down  to 
the  office  and  took  from  my  box  in  the  safe  an 
old-fashioned  set  of  emeralds  and,  asking  the 
proprietor  to  direct  me  to  the  most  reliable 
jeweler  and  to  send  some  one  to  sit  with  my  hus- 
band until  my  return,  went  out. 

I had  had  very  little  experience  in  buying  of 
merchants,  and  none  whatever  in  selling  to 
them,  but  I feigned  great  wisdom  and  dignity 
as  I told  the  young  man  who  stepped  forward  to 
wait  upon  me  that  my  business  was  with  the 
head  of  the  firm.  He  took  me  back  to  an  inner 
office,  where  an  old  man  with  grizzly-gray  hair 
and  a very  moist  countenance  was  looking  in- 
tently, through  something  which  very  much  re- 
sembled a napkin-ring  screwed  into  his  right 
eye,  at  some  jewels  lying  on  a tray  before  him. 
He  wore  his  teeth  on  the  outside  of  his  mouth, 
and  his  upper  lip  was  so  drawn,  in  the  intensity 
of  his  look,  as  to  be  almost  hidden  under  his 
over-reaching  nose.  His  face,  too,  was  wrinkled 
up  into  a thousand  gullies  in  his  concentration 
upon  his  work. 

“We  don’t  hemploy  young  women  ’ere,”  he 
said,  looking  up  and  frowning  as  lie  suddenly 
became  aware  of  my  presence. 


264  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


“I  came,”  I explained,  taking  out  my  emeralds 
and  handing  them  to  him,  “to  ask  you  if  you 
would  not,  please,  sir,  kindly  buy  some  of  these 
stones  from  me,  or,  at  least,  advance  me  some 
money  on  them.” 

“This  is  not  a pawnbroker’s  shop,  heither, 
mum,”  he  replied,  as  he  carefully  examined  the 
jewels,  and  then,  suddenly  popping  the  napkin- 
ring  out  of  his  eye,  turned  both  of  the  piercing 
little  gray  twinklers  upon  me  and  said : 

“Where  did  you  get  these  hemeralds  from, 
miss?” 

“I  was  born  with  them,  sir,”  I said  indig- 
nantly. 

Either  from  my  appearance,  or  for  some 
other  cause,  he  became  suddenly  suspicious,  and 
not  only  would  not  purchase  them  of  me,  but 
refused  to  let  me  have  them  till  I could  prove 
my  right  to  them.  I was  too  young  and  inex- 
perienced to  be  anything  but  furious,  and  the 
bitter,  scalding  tears  that  anger  sometimes  un- 
locks to  relieve  poor  woman’s  outraged  feelings, 
were  still  falling  fast  when  I reached  the  hotel 
with  the  clerk  whom  the  jeweler  had  sent  back 
with  me  that  I might  prove  by  the  proprietor 
my  ownership  of  the  jewels  with  which  I was 
born. 

He,  in  his  sympathy,  shared  my  anger  and, 
after  expressing  his  sincere  regret  that  I should 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  265 


have  been  subjected  to  such  an  indignity,  ad- 
vised, as  be  snatched  the  case  from  the  clerk 
with  a withering  look  of  scorn  translated  into 
more  emphatic  language,  that  I should  look 
carefully  over  them  to  be  sure  that  neither  this 
hireling  nor  his  master  had  abstracted  any  of 
the  stones,  for  his  experience  had  been  that 
suspicion  was  born  of  guilt. 

As  he  again  locked  up  my  emeralds  in  his  safe 
he  kindly  asked  how  much  money  I needed  and 
begged  that  in  the  future  I would  permit  him 
to  advance  for  me  if  I should  need  any,  and 
furthermore,  “as  to  the  board  and  expenses 
here,”  he  said,  “Mr.  Edwards  and  I will  arrange 
all  that  when  he  is  well — entirely  well.”  My 
friends  would  have  been  glad  to  advance  me  the 
money  but  I did  not  wish  to  trouble  them. 

Through  the  goodness  of  God  and  the  skill  of 
my  kind  physician,  my  loved  ones  were  spared 
to  me,  and  one  day,  some  time  after  they  were 
well,  as  I was  reading  the  paper  to  my  husband, 
I chanced  across  an  advertisement  for  a teacher 
of  Latin  in  Miss  McIntosh’s  school.  The  pro- 
fessor was  going  abroad  and  wanted  some  one 
to  take  his  place  during  his  absence.  The 
chuckle  of  delight  which  I involuntarily  gave 
as  I read  it,  provoked  from  my  Soldier  the  re- 
mark that  I was  keeping  something  very  good 
all  to  myself.  I slyly  determined  that  this  little 


266  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


suspicion  should  be  verified  and  that  I would 
make  an  application  at  once  for  the  position; 
then,  if  I should  fail,  I alone  would  suffer  from 
the  disappointment.  So,  just  as  soon  as  I could 
arrange  it,  I donned  my  best  clothes,  assumed 
a most  dignified  mien,  went  to  the  number  ad- 
vertised and  asked  for  the  professor. 

I was  shown  into  the  primmest  of  parlors — 
the  kind  of  room  one  feels  so  utterly  alone  in, 
without  even  the  suspicion  of  a spirit  around 
to  keep  your  own  spirit  company.  Each  piece 
of  furniture  was  placed  with  mathematical  pre- 
cision, and  all  was  ghost-proof.  The  proprie- 
tress, who  came  in  response  to  my  call,  seemed 
put  up  in  much  the  same  order.  She  was  tall 
and  angular,  and  her  grizzly-red  hair  was  ar- 
ranged in  three  large  puffs  (like  fortifications, 
I thought)  on  each  side  of  her  long,  thin  face, 
high  cheek-bones,  Roman  nose,  and  eyes 
crowded  up  together  under  gold-rimmed  spec- 
tacles. As  she  held  my  card  in  her  hand  and 
looked  at  me  with  a narrow-gauge  gaze,  pierc- 
ing my  inmost  thoughts,  and  with  that  discour- 
aging “Well  I-what-can-I-do-for-you?”  expres- 
sion, I felt  all  my  courage  going.  My  neces- 
sities aroused  me  from  my  cowardice,  and  I said 
as  bravely  as  I could: 

“I  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  read  your 
advertisement,  madam,  in  the  paper  this  morn- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  267 


ing,  and  have  come  in  answer  to  it.  May  I see 
the  professor?” 

Looking  curiously  at  my  card  and  then  over 
her  glasses  at  me,  she  said : 

“The  advertisement  was  for  a teacher,  not 
for  a pupil.” 

“I  am  perfectly  aware  of  that,”  I answered, 
“and  came  in  response,  to  offer  the  professor 
my  services  as  a teacher.” 

A most  quizzical  expression  bunched  up  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  and  wiggled  across  her 
little  colorless  eyes  as  she  said: 

“I  will  send  the  professor  down  to  you.” 

Looking  over  her  spectacles  again,  as  if  for  a 
verification  of  her  first  impression  of  me,  she 
left  the  room. 

Returning  after  a little  while,  she  said : 

“The  professor  requested  me  to  ask  if  you 
would  be  so  good  as  to  come  up  into  the  recita- 
tion room.” 

I saw  as  soon  as  I had  entered  that  a descrip- 
tion of  me  had  preceded  my  coming,  and  not 
a very  flattering  one,  either,  I judged,  from  the 
faces  of  the  professor  and  the  pupils. 

The  class  consisted  of  fourteen  young  ladies, 
all  of  them  apparently  older  than  I was.  The 
professor  finished  the  sentence  he  was  translat- 
ing on  the  board,  rubbed  it  out,  wiped  his  hands 
on  the  cloth,  replaced  it,  came  forward  and  was 


268  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


duly  presented  by  Miss  McIntosh,  who  remained 
in  the  room.  He  had  a pleasant,  round,  smooth 
face,  a bald  head  and  large  gray  eyes,  was  short 
and  stout,  with  a sympathetic,  cultured  voice 
and  manner. 

“Miss  McIntosh  tells  me  you  came  in  reply 
to  my  advertisement.  I have  been  forced  to  ad- 
vertise in  order  to  save  time,  as  my  going 
abroad  is  unexpected  and  brooks  no  delay.” 

“I  am  very  glad  you  had  no  option  but  to 
advertise,  else  it  might  not  have  been  my  good 
fortune  to  know  of,  and  respond  to,  your  wants, 
sir.” 

“And  you  have  really  come  to  apply  for  the 
position!”  he  asked. 

“I  have,  sir.” 

The  expression  on  Miss  McIntosh’s  face,  the 
nudging  and  suppressed  titter  among  the  pupils 
which  this  answer  brought  forth  was  not  calcu- 
lated to  lessen  my  embarrassment. 

“Have  you  had  any  experience  in  teaching?” 

“No,  sir,”  I said. 

“May  I ask  where  you  were  educated?” 

“I  was  graduated  at  Lynchburg  College.” 

“Is  that  in  England?” 

“Oh,  no,  sir,”  said  I,  with  astonishment  at  his 
ignorance,  and  then  recollecting  myself  just  as 
I was  about  to  inform  him  that  Lynchburg  was 
the  fifth  town  in  population  in  Virginia,  was  on 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  269 


the  south  bank  of  the  James  River,  oue  hundred 
and  sixteen  miles  from  the  capital  of  the  State, 
and  within  view  of  the  Blue  Ridge  Mountains 
and  Peaks  of  Otter,  I stopped  short,  embar- 
rassed by  my  imprudence.  The  professor,  tak- 
ing no  notice  of  my  confusion,  went  on  to  say: 

“And  so  you  were  graduated  there?  My 
class  here  has  just  finished  Caesar.  Do  you  re- 
member how  Caesar  commences?” 

“Yes,  sir,”  I said,  and  repeated:  “Gallia  est 
omnis  divisa  in  partes  tres.” 

“You  have  the  Continental  pronunciation,  I 
see.” 

He  gave  me  several  sentences  to  translate; 
then  an  ode  from  Horace  and  some  selections 
from  Catullus  and  Tibullus.  By  this  time  the 
pupils  were  silent,  and  Miss  McIntosh’s  expres- 
sion was  changed. 

He  then  asked  me  to  write  and  parse  a sen- 
tence, which  I did,  saying  sotto  voce  as  he  took 
the  chalk  from  me : 

“That  was  a catch  question.” 

“Please  translate  and  parse  this,”  said  he, 
without  noticing  my  aside,  and  he  wrote  in 
Latin,  “The  late  President  of  the  United  States 
said  ‘nobody  is  hurt ’ ” 

Before  he  wrote  any  further,  instead  of  trans- 
lating, I looked  up  at  him  and  said : 

“But,  oh,  sir!  somebody  was  hurt.” 


270  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


Quickly  he  cleared  the  board,  put  down  the 
cloth,  wiped  his  hands,  turned  his  face  to  me 
and  offering  his  hand,  said,  not  to  my  surprise, 
because  I had  faith  in  prayer,  but  rather  to  that 
of  Miss  McIntosh  and  the  young  ladies: 

“I  will  engage  you,  Mrs.  Edwards,  and  will  be 
responsible  for  you.” 

We  went  down  to  the  parlor,  and  I gave  him 
the  names  of  the  only  friends  I had  in  Montreal 
of  whom  he  could  make  inquiries  regarding  me. 
The  next  day  I gave  my  first  lesson  to  the  class. 
I became  very  fond  of  them  all  and,  after  my 
embarrassment  of  the  first  few  days,  got  along 
very  well  with  them. 

My  Soldier  was  curious  to  know  where  I went 
every  day,  but,  knowing  it  gave  me  great  pleas- 
ure to  be  thus  mysterious,  humored  me  and 
asked  no  questions. 

My  first  month’s  salary  was  spent  in  part 
payment  on  an  overcoat  for  him,  and  only  Our 
Father  and  the  angels  know  what  joy  filled  my 
heart,  that  with  the  work  of  my  hands  I could 
give  him  comfort.  Then  my  secret  was  out. 

I was  sorry  when  the  cold  weather  came. 
The  snows  not  only  put  an  end  to  the  military 
reviews,  but  covered  up  the  beautiful  green. 
There  were  very  few  diversions  for  us,  but  I 
was  just  as  happy  as  it  was  possible  for  me  to 
be.  Indeed,  those  were  the  very  happiest  days 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  271 


of  my  whole  life  and  I was  almost  sorry  when 
General  Rufus  Ingalls  wrote  to  my  Soldier,  in- 
closing a kind  personal  letter  from  General 
Grant,  together  with  the  following  official  assur- 
ance of  his  safety : 

“HEADQUARTERS  OF  THE  ARMIES  OF  THE 
UNITED  STATES 

Washington,  D.  C.,  March  12th,  1866. 

Geo.  E.  Pickett,  a paroled  officer  of  the  Southern 
Army,  is  exempt  from  arrest  by  Military  Authorities, 
except  directed  by  the  President  of  the  United  States, 
Secretary  of  War  or  from  these  Hd.  Qrs.  so  long  as  he 
observes  the  conditions  of  his  parole. 

The  restriction  requiring  paroled  officers  to  remain 
at  their  homes  is  removed  in  this  case,  and  he,  Pickett, 
will  be  allowed  to  travel  unmolested  throughout  the 
United  States. 

U.  S.  Grant, 

Lt.  Gen.” 

General  Grant  also  wrote  that  it  had  not  been 
at  all  necessary  for  us  to  go  away  in  the  first 
place,  and  that  the  terms  of  his  cartel  should 
have  been  respected,  even  though  it  had  neces- 
sitated another  declaration  of  war. 

We  stopped  in  New  York  en  route  to  Vir- 
ginia, expecting  to  remain  there  only  three  or 
four  days,  but  we  found  that  our  board  had  been 


272  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


paid  in  advance  for  two  weeks,  that  a carriage 
had  been  put  at  our  service  for  that  length  of 
time,  and  that  in  our  box  was  a pack  of  wine- 
cards  marked  “Paid.”  To  this  day  I do  not 
know  how  many  people’s  guests  we  were,  for  a 
great  many  of  my  Soldier’s  old  army  friends 
were  there  at  the  time,  and  they  all  vied  with 
each  other  in  making  us  happy. 


TURKEY  ISLAND 


A S soon  as  we  could  make  our  plans  we 
returned  to  our  ruined  home  on  Turkey 
Island  by  the  James  River,  where  we 
built  a small  cottage  in  the  place  of  the  colonial 
mansion  which  had  been  burned  by  Butler. 

The  ancestral  trees  had  all  been  cut,  even 
the  monuments  in  the  family  cemetery  had  been 
broken,  but  it  was  home  and  we  loved  it.  The 
river  and  the  woods  and  our  own  garden  sup- 
plied our  table.  We  planted  vines  to  wind  lov- 
ingly around  the  melancholy  stumps  of  the  old 
oaks  and  elms  which  had  fallen  victims  of  the 
vandalism  of  war.  In  our  own  flowers  my  Sol- 
dier found  the  perfumes  that  he  loved.  He 
gathered  geranium  leaves  to  keep  around  him, 
scattered  rose-petals  through  his  bureau 
drawers,  and  put  fragrant  blossoms  into  bags 
and  laid  them  in  the  folds  of  his  clothing.  In 
war-time  a friend  going  North  asked  him, 
“What  shall  I bring  you?” 


273 


274  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


“ A bottle  of  new-mown  hay  and  a bottle  of 
heliotrope,”  was  the  reply. 

Turkey  Island,  called  by  the  Federal  soldiers 
Turkey  Bend,  is  in  Henrico  County,  which  is 
one  of  the  original  shares  into  which  Virginia 
was  divided  in  1634.  Historic  Richmond,  the 
State  capital,  a town  established  in  the  reign 
of  George  II,  on  land  belonging  to  Colonel  Byrd, 
is  its  county-seat.  Brandon,  the  home  of  the 
Harrisons;  Shirley,  the  home  of  the  Carters; 
and  Westover,  the  home  of  the  Byrds,  where 
Arnold  landed  on  the  4th  of  January,  1781,  and 
proceeded  on  his  march  toward  Richmond,  are 
neighboring  plantations.  Malvern  Hill,  where 
one  of  our  internecine  battles  was  fought,  ad- 
joins Turkey  Island. 

Not  far  distant  is  the  famous  Dutch  Gap 
Canal,  the  useful  legacy  which  Butler  left  to  the 
State  of  Virginia,  and  which,  in  the  advantages 
it  gave  the  commonwealth,  to  some  extent 
atoned  to  my  Soldier  for  the  destruction  of  the 
Pickett  home. 

Diverting  his  troops  for  a time  from  wanton 
spoliation,  Butler  set  them  to  digging  a canal 
at  Dutch  Gap  to  connect  the  James  and  Appo- 
mattox, thereby  shortening  by  seven  miles  the 
road  to  Richmond,  and  placing  the  State  traffic 
under  a permanent  obligation  to  his  memory. 
To  protect  his  men  while  they  worked  he  sta- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  275 


tioned  His  prisoners  in  the  trench  beside  them, 
in  order  that  the  Confederates  might  not  yield 
to  the  otherwise  irresistible  temptation  to  fire 
upon  them. 

Butler  may  not  have  been  gifted  with  that 
fascinating  suavity  of  demeanor  which  renders 
a man  an  ever-sparkling  ornament  to  society, 
but  from  a practical  business  point  of  view  he 
was  not  wholly  destitute  of  commendable  quali- 
ties. His  Dutch  Gap  Canal  is  not  only  a last- 
ing monument  to  his  progressive  spirit,  but  a 
benefit  to  commerce  and  an  interesting  feature 
which  has  attracted  visitors  from  many  nations. 

Out  on  a point  of  the  plantation,  back  from 
the  river  in  a clump  of  trees — the  beginning  of 
the  big  woods — is  still  standing  a most  inter- 
esting monument.  The  top  of  it  was  broken  off 
by  Butler’s  troops  in  a search  for  hidden  treas- 
ure. It  was  erected  by  William  and  Mary  Ran- 
dolph in  1771.  The  following  is  a copy  of  the 
inscription  on  one  of  its  sides : 

“The  foundation  of  this  pillar  was  laid  in  1771, 
when  all  the  great  rivers  of  this  country  were  swept 
by  inundations  never  before  experienced ; which 
changed  the  face  of  nature  and  left  traces  of  their 
violence  that  will  remain  for  ages.” 

My  first  visit  to  this  monument  is  one  of  the 
sweetest  memories  of  my  Turkey  Island  life. 


276  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


I had  gone  with  my  husband  to  hunt  rabbits 
and  birds— a hunt  more  for  the  meat  than  the 
sport  in  those  poverty-stricken  days  when  our 
larders  were  greatly  dependent  upon  the  water 
and  the  woods. 

The  day  was  fine  and  the  dew  was  yet 
glistening  as  we  came  suddenly  and  without 
warning  within  touch  of  the  gray  broken 
monument  shut  in  and  surrounded  by  the  great 
forest  trees.  In  silence  and  solemn  awe,  in 
the  strange  light  and  sudden  coolness  beneath 
the  shadows  my  hero-soldier  stacked  his  gun 
and,  raising  his  hat,  gently  and  silently  reached 
for  my  hand.  I slipped  it  into  his  and  drew 
close  to  him.  Birds  were  singing  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

“God’s  choir,”  he  said,  and  in  his  beautiful 
voice  sang  his  favorite  hymn,  “Guide  me,  oh, 
thou  great  Jehovah.”  Then  he  taught  me  these 
lines : 

“The  groves  are  God’s  first  temples.  Ere  man 
learned 

To  hew  the  shaft  and  lay  the  architrave, 

And  spread  the  roof  above  them, — ere  he  framed 
The  lofty  vault  to  gather  and  roll  back 
The  sound  of  anthems;  in  the  darkling  wood, 
Amidst  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down 
And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 
And  supplication.” 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  277 


“Is  not  that  monument  one  of  the  oldest  in 
Virginia?”  I asked  my  Soldier. 

“No,”  he  said.  “There  are  many  older,  but 
the  oldest  one  in  the  United  States,  I believe,  is 
one  erected  to  a poor  fellow  who  died  on  what 
was  to  be  your  birthday  in  the  centuries  to  come. 
It  is  on  the  banks  of  Neabsco  Creek  in  Fairfax 
County.  Once  when  I was  on  furlough  Snelling 
and  I came  across  it  and  copied  the  epitaph. 
The  poor  fellow  was  a companion  of  John 
Smith.  The  inscription  on  the  monument  sim- 
ply said : 

“ ‘Here  lies  ye  body  of  Lieut.  William  Herris, 
who  died  May  16,  1608,  aged  65  years;  by  birth  a 
Briton;  a good  soldier,  a good  husband  and  neigh- 
bor.’ ” 

These  rambles  over  the  fields  and  woods, 
through  the  clover  and  sweetbrier,  keeping  step 
and  chattering  with  my  Soldier  where  he,  as  a 
boy,  had  often  tramped  with  his  father,  are 
among  the  blessedest  of  my  blessed  memories. 
My  Soldier’s  classic  taste  and  perfect  harmony 
and  simple,  pure  heart  made  him  a true  lover 
of  nature  and  the  trees  and  the  plants,  the 
stones,  the  sod,  the  ground,  the  waters,  the  sky, 
and  all  living  animals  were  his  kin. 

Though  my  warrior  was  a lion  in  battle,  he 
was  gentle,  amiable,  good-humored,  affectionate 


278  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


and  hospitable  in  his  home.  The  same  exuber- 
ant and  hopeful  spirit  which  cheered  and  en- 
couraged his  soldiers  in  the  field  was  felt  in  his 
home  life.  All  the  world  is  witness  to  his 
patriotism  and  unselfishness,  as  he  offered  his 
life  for  the  success  of  the  cause  in  which  he  had 
faith.  He  was  never  disheartened  by  the  most 
complicated  difficulties.  Unspoiled  by  fame, 
just  and  loyal,  he  deserved  the  love  he  received, 
for  he  was  worshipped  by  his  family,  idolized 
by  his  soldiers,  honored  by  all  parties  and  all 
nations — my  brave  warrior,  as  simple  as  a child, 
as  high-minded  as  he  upon  whom  the  word- 
magician  said,  “Every  god  did  seem  to  set  his 
seal,  to  give  the  world  assurance  of  a man.” 

Soon  after  the  surrender  the  Khedive  of 
Egypt  offered  my  Soldier  the  position  of  Gen- 
eral in  his  army,  which  he  declined.  After  he 
had  refused  a second  invitation  the  Khedive 
cabled  to  Mr.  Mott  asking  if  there  was  any  way 
of  inducing  General  Pickett  to  accept  the  com- 
mission. My  Soldier  replied: 

“I  fight  only  for  my  country.  Nothing  would 
induce  me  to  enter  a foreign  war.” 

He  tried  to  turn  his  sword  into  a plowshare, 
but  he  was  not  expert  with  plowshares  and, 
worse,  he  constantly  received  applications  for 
employment  from  old  comrades  no  more  skilled 
than  he.  All  were  made  welcome,  though  they 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  279 


might  not  be  able  to  distinguish  a rake  from  a 
rail  fence  or  know  whether  potatoes  grew  on 
trees  or  trellised  vines.  They  would  get  up 
when  they  felt  like  it,  linger  over  breakfast,  go 
out  to  the  fields,  and  if  the  sun  was  too  hot  or 
the  wind  too  cold  they  would  come  back  to  sit 
on  the  veranda  or  around  the  fire  till  dinner 
was  ready.  Then  they  would  linger  at  table 
telling  war  stories  until  it  was  unanimously  de- 
cided to  be  too  late  for  any  more  work  that  day. 
There  were  Generals,  Colonels,  Majors,  Cap- 
tains, Lieutenants,  privates,  all  of  one  rank 
now,  and  he  who  desired  a graphic  history  of 
the  four  years’  war  needed  only  to  listen  to  the 
conversation  of  the  agricultural  army  at  Turkey 
Island.  The  inevitable  soon  came.  Resources 
were  exhausted  and  proprietor  and  guests  were 
forced  to  seek  other  fields. 

One  of  our  friends  was  a veteran  who  had 
lost  an  eye  in  the  Mexican  war  and  had  served 
in  the  Confederate  Army.  All  that  was  left  of 
his  magnificence  was  his  pride,  which  had  grown 
strong  and  rugged  on  misfortune.  It  was  diffi- 
cult to  do  anything  for  him.  He  would  never 
admit  his  needs  and  any  reference  thereto  was 
likely  to  give  offense.  He  had  visited  us  for  a 
time  and  when  urged  to  stay  had  resolutely  de- 
clined. My  Soldier  was  very  anxious  to  help 
him,  but  fearful  of  wounding  him.  Walking 


280  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


down  with  him  to  take  the  steamer  to  Rich- 
mond my  Soldier,  unobserved,  took  a ten-dollar 
gold  piece  from  his  pocket  and  dropped  it  in 
the  road,  hoping  that  the  old  Major  would  find 
it.  But  the  veteran  walked  by  without  seeing  it. 
So  his  friend  was  compelled  to  find  it  himself. 
Three  times  the  ruse  was  played  and  at  last  the 
Major  saw  the  coin  and,  picking  it  up,  offered 
it  to  his  companion.  “No,  it  belongs  to  you,” 
said  the  General.  “You  must  have  dropped  it,” 
urged  the  Major.  “I?”  was  the  query.  “How 
could  I have  a gold  piece?  The  Yankees  are 
about  the  only  people  who  have  been  down  in 
this  country  with  gold,  and  now  that  you  have 
found  it,  it  belongs  to  you.”  After  a long  dis- 
cussion the  Major  was  induced  to  accept  the  law 
that  “finders  is  owners,”  and  he  put  the  gold  in 
his  pocket. 

When  a number  of  his  Virginians  wished  to 
make  my  Soldier  Governor  he  said  that  he  never 
again  would  hold  any  office,  but  he  would  be  glad 
to  have  the  valor  of  his  soldiers  at  Gettysburg 
recognized  and  he  and  the  men  would  like  to  see 
his  old  Brigadier,  Kemper,  elected  Governor. 
General  Kemper  was  the  only  one  of  Pickett’s 
Brigadiers  who  came  out  of  the  battle  of  Gettys- 
burg, and  he  was  maimed  for  life.  He  was 
elected  Governor,  and,  as  he  was  a bachelor,  my 
Soldier  and  I often  assisted  at  his  receptions. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  281 


At  a dinner  given  by  the  Governor  to  George 
Augustus  Sala,  the  English  correspondent,  Mr. 
Sala  asked : 

“General  Pickett,  whom  do  you  regard  as  the 
hero  of  the  battle  of  Gettysburg,  on  the  north- 
ern side?” 

“Mr.  Sala,”  was  the  reply,  “the  hero  of  Gettys- 
burg on  both  the  northern  and  southern  side 
was  the  private  soldier.” 

I had  often  heard  him  say  that  not  the  Gen- 
erals but  the  men  in  the  ranks  fought  the  battles. 

This  reminded  me  of  a story,  which  I told 
them : 

“At  a dinner  in  Canada,  given  to  General 
Magruder’s  niece,  who  had  married  an  English 
officer,  the  conversation  turned  upon  the  battle 
of  Gettysburg  and  my  Soldier  was  asked  by  the 
Governor-General  and  General  Magruder  if  he 
would  tell  them,  now  that  the  war  was  over, 
whom  he  considered  responsible  for'  the  loss  of 
the  battle;  who  was  to  blame.  With  a twinkle 
in  his  eye  he  replied: 

“ ‘Well,  Governor-General  and  General  Ma- 
gruder, I think  the  Yankees  had  a little  some- 
thing to  do  with  it.’  ” 

Among  the  visitors  at  our  home  at  Turkey 
Island  was  Mr.  R.  M.  T.  Hunter.  I well  re- 
member his  grave  but  genial  face,  beardless, 
marked  with  deep  lines  wrought  by  years  of 


282  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


study  and  care.  Those  who  do  not  recall  him 
may  look  at  the  pictured  face  of  former  Sena- 
tor John  W.  Daniel,  of  Virginia,  and  gain 
an  idea  of  his  appearance.  His  long  hair,  al- 
most touching  his  shoulders,  gave  him  an  air 
that  would  seem  quaint  to  one  accustomed  to 
the  closely  cropped  heads  of  the  present  day. 
His  extensive  acquaintance  with  public  life, 
formed  in  the  Congress  of  the  United  States 
and  that  of  the  Confederacy,  had  secured  for 
him  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  anecdote  which 
his  ready  wit  displayed  to  good  effect,  and  his 
vein  of  humor  made  him  always  a welcome 
companion.  His  ability  to  deal  with  weighty 
subjects  is  indicated  by  the  remark  of  Senator 
Wigfall,  “I  don’t  know  what  we  Southern  men 
would  do  without  Hunter;  he  is  the  only  one 
among  us  who  knows  anything  about  finance.” 
As  a child  his  gravity  and  fondness  for  books 
led  his  old  mammy  to  say,  “Li’l  Marse  Robert 
gwine  ter  be  a gre’t  man;  he’s  so  lonesome  in 
his  ways.” 

Mr.  Hunter  knew  men,  and  was  the  first  to 
discover  the  genius  of  Stonewall  Jackson.  In 
a letter  written  to  my  Soldier  near  the  begin- 
ning of  the  war  he  congratulated  the  South  on 
the  possession  of  so  great  a military  man  as 
General  Jackson.  He  was  one  of  those  whom 
Mr.  Lincoln  wished  to  see  in  Richmond  after 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  283 


the  surrender,  expressing  confidence  in  his 
honesty  and  his  influence  with  the  Southern 
people,  a meeting*  which  was  prevented  by  the 
absence  of  Mr.  Hunter  from  Richmond  at  the 
time,  and  for  which  there  was  no  later  oppor- 
tunity because  of  the  tragic  end  of  the  Presi- 
dent’s great  life. 

Some  of  the  Northern  officers  who  had 
seen  little,  if  any,  of  Southern  plantation  life, 
visited  us  and  were  deeply  interested  in  the 
characteristic  features  of  our  domestic  circle. 
They  found  much  amusement  in  the  original 
repartee  of  the  negroes,  liking  to  ask  them 
questions  and  discuss  with  them  subjects  of 
everyday  life.  General  Ingalls  saw  an  old 
negro  coming  in  with  a large  number  of 
terrapin. 

“What  a lot  of  terrapin  and  what  immense 
ones,  Uncle  Tom!  How  much  do  you  get  for 
them,  and  where  do  you  sell  them?” 

“Yas,  suli;  dey  is  ’mense  ’case  dey’s  fresh 
water  tarepin ; salt  water  ones  is  littler.  I gits 
ober  en  above  a couple  er  ninepences  apiece  fer 
’em,  en  I sells  ’em  up  in  Richmon’  ter  Mr.  Mon- 
tero,  de  gambler  gemman.  You  mus’  ’scuse  me, 
Marsa,  fer  answerin’  you  in  retail.” 

“Why,  Uncle  Tom,  you  could  get  over  a dol- 
lar apiece  for  these  terrapin  in  New  York,”  Gen- 
eral Ingalls  replied. 


284  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


Uncle  Tom  pointed  to  a bucket  of  water  and 
looking  at  the  General  said : 

“Yas,  sub,  Marsa;  I spec’  dat’s  so.  En,  suk, 
ef  I had  dat  pail  er  water  in  hell  I could  git  a 
million  er  dollars  fer  it.” 

The  visitors  were  also  amused  by  the  division 
of  the  plantation  property,  as  explained  by  the 
servants. 

“Whose  horse  is  that?”  asked  General  Tom 
Pitcher  of  one  of  the  boys  “mindin’  de  cows.” 

“Dat  hawss?  W’y,  Marsa,  hawsses  allers 
b’longs  ter  de  men-folks,  so  cou’se  dat  hawss 
b’longs  ter  Marse  George.” 

“And  whose  cows  are  those?” 

“De  woman-folks  allers  owns  de  cows,  so 
cou’se  dey’s  Miss  Sally’s  cows.” 

“Whose  chickens  are  those  in  the  yard?” 

“Dey’s  woman’s  t’ings,  too,  en  con’se  dey’s 
Miss  Sally’s.” 

“To  whom  do  those  mules  belong?” 

“Dey’s  jest  only  mules  en  dey  don’  hab  no 
owners.  Dey  don’  b’long  ter  nobody  ’specially, 
en  don’  nobody  want  ’em  ’specially  cep’n  fer  ter 
wu’k.  Dey’s  dif’unt  fum  udder  prop’ty;  dey 
ain’  one  t’ing  ner  de  udder.” 

Looking  up  General  Pitcher  saw  a flock  of 
wild  ducks  flying  across  the  river  in  delightful 
irresponsibility. 

“Whose  ducks  are  those?”  he  asked. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  285 


The  boy  looked  up  and  turned  toward  the 
General  with  an  expression  of  scorn. 

“Dey’s  dey  own  ducks,”  he  asserted  emphati- 
cally. “Lawd,  Marsa,  whar  you  been  all  yo’  life 
not  ter  know  dat  wile  ducks  is  dey  own  ducks?” 

Going  down  the  river  one  day  with  my  Sol- 
dier, his  brother  Charlie,  and  their  sister,  in  a 
boat  rowed  by  the  overseer,  I had  what  I 
thoug'ht  an  interesting  illustration  of  the  te- 
nacity of  childish  habits  of  thought.  Mr.  Sims 
had  been  overseer  on  the  Pickett  plantation  in 
the  childhood  of  the  two  sons  of  the  family,  who 
used  to  follow  him  around  and  absorb  knowl- 
edge from  what  they  looked  upon  as  fathomless 
depths  of  intellect  and  experience.  They  were 
catching  terrapin  and  my  Soldier  looked  at  the 
catch  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

“Mr.  Sims,  why  is  it  that  these  terrapin  are 
of  such  different  markings?”  he  asked  with  a 
recurrence  of  the  old-time  attitude  of  mental 
dependence.  “They  come  from  the  same  water, 
are  grown  in  the  same  conditions,  and  seem  in 
every  way  alike  except  that  the  color  mark- 
ings are  different.  There  is  a reason;  what 
is  it?” 

“Yas,  George,”  said  the  old  man,  “of  course 
there  is  a reason  for  it,  it’s  jest  this  way  with 
them  tarepins;  I’ve  allers  noticed  they  are  dif- 
ferent. I’ve  been  catchin’  tarepins  off  an’  on 


286  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


all  my  life  an’  I’ve  allers  seen  ’em  that  way. 
Some’s  streaked  an’  some’s  criss-crossed  an’ 
some’s  plain  an’  some  has  diamon’s  on  ’em  an’ 
that’s  jest  the  reason.  They’s  jest  made  that 
way.” 

“I  see  now,”  said  my  Soldier  in  all  serious- 
ness and  good  faith.  “I  suppose  that  is  the  rea- 
son. I have  often  wondered  about  it  and  this 
is  the  first  time  I ever  understood  it.” 

After  all  the  years  and  the  wars  and  the  for- 
eign travel  and  the  changes  he  had  uncon- 
sciously gone  back  to  the  blind  confidence  of 
childhood. 

Adjoining  Turkey  Island  was  the  plantation 
of  Colonel  William  Allen  (Buck  Allen),  Curl’s 
Neck.  General  Schofield  and  some  other  offi- 
cers of  the  United  States  Army,  among  them 
Colonel  Day,  drove  down  from  Eichmond,  visit- 
ing old  battlefields  and  shooting  ducks  and  par- 
tridges, and  were  guests  at  Curl’s  Neck.  At 
the  invitation  of  my  Soldier  they  came  to  our 
home.  Colonel  Day  had  never  before  seen  my 
Soldier  and  he  afterward  thus  expressed  his 
feeling  upon  first  meeting  the  warrior  whom  he 
had  hitherto  known  only  by  reputation : 

“Imagine  my  surprise  when,  instead  of  the 
dashing,  rollicking  fire-eater  whom  I expected  to 
see  in  the  hero  of  the  greatest  charge  in  mod- 
ern history,  I touched  glasses  of  apple-toddy 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  287 


with  the  gentle  George  Pickett.  I was  im- 
pressed above  all  with  his  quiet  demeanor,  his 
warm-hearted  hospitality  and  gentleness.  I 
stood  in  speechless  wonder,  trying  to  reconcile 
the  man  before  me  with  my  preconceived  idea 
of  the  great  warrior.  It  might  all  be  summed 
up  in  the  explanation  that  ‘the  bravest  are  the 
tenderest.’  ” 


XXXI 

AT  THE  WHITE  HOUSE 

NOT  long  after  General  Grant  became 
President  he  sent  an  order  to  my  Soldier 
and  Mrs.  Grant  extended  an  invitation 
to  me  and  our  little  ones  to  visit  them  at  the 
White  House.  The  Southern  train,  usually 
late,  was  on  time  for  once,  and  we  came  out 
of  the  station  just  as  the  President’s  carriage 
appeared. 

“Hello,  Pickett !”  he  called  out.  “Up  to  your 
old  war  tricks,  coming  in  ahead  of  the  train!” 

The  President  referred  to  an  incident  of  the 
war;  my  Soldier,  wishing  to  go  from  Hanover 
Junction  to  Richmond,  applied  to  General  Lee 
for  a pass.  At  that  time  the  cars  were  so 
crowded  that  travel  by  rail  was  not  permitted 
except  on  official  business  or  by  special  per- 
mission. General  Lee,  just  boarding  the  train 
from  Richmond  on  military  duty,  referred  him 
to  the  Adjutant-General.  As  there  was  not 
time  to  visit  the  Adjutant  and  be  in  Richmond 


288 


ULTSSES  S.  GRANT 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  289 


at  the  desired  hour,  my  Soldier  mounted  his 
horse,  Lucy,  and  rode  into  the  city,  waiting  at 
the  station  to  salute  General  Lee  as  he  stepped 
from  the  train. 

My  first  view  of  Washington  was  from  the 
President’s  carriage,  though  it  could  scarcely 
be  called  a view  of  the  city,  as  the  carriage 
contained  all  my  world  and  my  attention  was 
more  particularly  centered  therein. 

We  were  received  with  warm  hospitality  by 
Mrs.  Grant,  who  proved  to  be  a charming 
hostess,  and  all  went  well  until  night  came,  when 
I was  so  afraid  my  baby  would  cry  that  I could 
hardly  sleep.  The  next  day  when  my  Soldier 
spoke  of  my  uneasiness  the  President,  putting 
his  hat  on  the  boy’s  head  and  his  stick  between 
his  legs,  said: 

“There,  ride  your  horse  and  tell  them  you’ll 
cry  as  much  as  you  please;  that  you  own  this 
house.” 

One  evening  when  we  were  reminiscing  I told 
Mrs.  Grant  of  the  first  time  I had  seen  her,  and 
my  Soldier,  who  loved  to  tease  me,  repeated, 
much  to  my  dismay,  my  belligerent  remarks 
on  that  occasion  and  the  argument  he  had  used 
to  curb  my  hostile  demonstrations. 

“And  do  you  know,  Pickett,”  the  President 
replied,  relieving  my  embarrassment,  “that 
once  we  were  foolish  enough  to  think  seriously 


290  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


of  having  an  operation  performed  on  her  dear 
eyes?  We  had  consulted  the  best  surgeons  and 
had  been  assured  that  it  was  a very  simple  thing 
and  not  at  all  dangerous,  so  we  decided  to  have 
it  done.  As  the  time  grew  near  I got  to  worry- 
ing over  it,  and  the  more  I thought  of  it  the 
more  I did  not  want  my  wife’s  eyes  changed 
even  the  least  little  bit  from  what  they  had 
always  been.  Arrangements  had  been  made; 
the  hour  for  the  operation  was  almost  at  hand. 
We  were  alone.  I stood  watching  her  collecting 
the  last  little  odds  and  ends  and  stealing  my 
pictures  and  the  children’s  and  putting  them 
into  her  handbag  under  her  shawl.  Everything 
was  ready  and  we  started  from  the  room.  My 
hand  was  on  the  knob  of  the  door,  when  I 
stopped  and  said: 

“ ‘My  dear,  I am  very  selfish  and  ought  not 
to  say  this ; but  I don’t  want  your  eyes  changed. 
They  look  just  as  they  did  the  first  time  I ever 
saw  them — the  same  eyes  I looked  into  when  I 
fell  in  love  with  you — the  same  that  looked  up 
into  mine  and  told  me  that  my  love  was  re- 
turned. I have  seen  that  expression  in  them 
through  all  the  years  and  I don’t  want  it  to  be 
lost.  You  might  look  better  to  other  people,  but 
to  me  you  are  prettier  as  you  are.  So,  if  you 
don’t  mind,  please  let’s  keep  your  dear  eyes  just 
as  they  always  have  been.’ 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  291 


“She  looked  up  in  joyful  surprise  and  replied : 

“ ‘Why,  it  was  only  for  your  sake  that  I was 
even  thinking  of  having  anything  done,  and  if 
you  feel  in  that  way  about  it  I — I— — ’ 

“Well,  Pickett,  I was  glad  and  she  was  glad. 
I untied  the  bonnet-strings,  threw  the  bonnet 
onto  the  floor,  I think,  and  took  her  by  the 
hand  and  we  turned  and  walked  back  into  the 
room  as  light-hearted  as  a pair  of  children  on 
their  first  picnic.” 

“Untied  the  bonnet-strings !”  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Grant.  “You  just  pulled  them  into  a hard  knot, 
then  broke  them  and  threw  the  bonnet  onto  the 
floor.” 

He  reached  over  and  patted  her  hand,  and 
the  President  of  the  United  States  gazed  upon 
the  same  eyes  that  had  looked  their  love  into 
those  of  the  young  captain  in  the  years  agone 
and  had  become  more  precious  to  him  with  the 
passing  of  time. 

Mrs.  Grant’s  morning  receptions  in  the  blue 
room,  in  which  she  was  assisted  by  the  Presi- 
dent, were  very  popular,  chiefly  because  of  her 
unfailing  good  nature,  which  had  the  effect  of 
putting  others  in  a good  humor  with  themselves 
and  the  world.  It  may  be  that  you  have  met 
people  whose  apparently  permanent  condition 
of  mind  led  you  to  think  that  they  were  averse 
to  being  put  into  a good  humor  and  would  pre- 


292  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


fer  to  avoid  the  society  of  those  who  could  ef- 
fect such  a revolution.  That  is  a delusion. 
There  is  no  one  who  does  not  like  to  be  in  a 
good  temper  or  fails  to  experience  a pleasant 
glow  in  the  society  of  those  who  can  produce 
that  novel  condition. 

The  weakness  of  Mrs.  Grant’s  eyes  compelled 
her  to  carry  on  her  correspondence  with  the  aid 
of  a secretary,  one  of  the  soldiers  usually  being 
sent  to  her  aid  when  she  desired  clerical  assist- 
ance. It  was  before  the  day  of  the  White  House 
“social  secretary,”  writing  to  the  first  Lady  of 
the  Land  not  being  at  that  time  so  popular  a 
diversion  as  it  has  since  become. 

The  charities  and  generous  deeds  of  Mrs. 
Grant  were  so  quietly  effected  that  the  world 
never  knew  of  the  good  she  accomplished.  A 
friend  who  was  very  close  to  her  said  that 
her  work  ought  to  be  made  known  to  the  public 
after  she  was  gone,  that  it  might  live  in  memory 
without  wounding  her  modesty. 

A home-like  atmosphere  pervaded  the  White 
House,  due  to  the  President’s  habit  of  keeping 
his  official  existence  and  his  home  life  separate 
and  to  the  determination  of  Mrs.  Grant  to  pro- 
vide him  with  a place  where  official  duties  might 
fall  from  his  brain  and  pleasure  and  content 
fill  his  heart.  Here  he  was  “Ulys”  to  “Mrs.  G.,” 
as  he  called  his  heart-companion  of  many  years. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  293 


Here  he  listened  to  the  confidences  of  his  chil- 
dren, happy  that  they  brought  to  him  even 
their  inmost  thoughts.  At  that  time  Fred  was 
a cadet  at  West  Point  and  the  younger  children 
were  attending  Washington  schools. 

Colonel  Dent  did  his  part  toward  keeping  the 
White  House  cheerful  with  the  original  of  that 
smile  which  has  since  been  utilized  for  commer- 
cial purposes.  General  Babcock  could  more 
easily  have  passed  for  a politician  than  a sol- 
dier. General  Porter’s  funereal  face  covered 
a fountain  of  wit  that  was  constantly  bubbling 
up.  to  the  surprise  and  delight  of  those  who  had 
been  deceived  by  the  preternatural  gravity  of 
his  expression.  The  President  was  criticized 
by  his  opponents  for  keeping  officers  about  the 
White  House,  but  when  their  martial  phase  was 
so  slightly  in  evidence  I could  not  see  why  any- 
one should  object. 

Though  General  Grant  was  the  soul  of  genial- 
ity with  his  intimate  friends,  to  the  public  gen- 
erally his  reticence  had  made  him  known  as 
“The  Sphynx,”  or  “the  Great  Unspeakable.”  If 
one  chanced  to  appeal  to  “the  Sphynx”  on  a 
subject  in  which  he  was  interested  he  became  as 
fluent  as  the  most  loquacious  of  men.  When  he 
was  C.ommander  of  the  United  States  Army  a 
gentleman  who  called  upon  him  with  a letter 
of  introduction  from  a friend  of  both,  tried  him 


294  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


upon  two  apparently  interesting  subjects  with- 
out leading  anywhere.  As  the  visitor  was  about 
to  retire  in  despair  it  occurred  to  him  to  men- 
tion a fine  horse  owned  by  their  friend.  The 
“Great  Unspeakable”  immediately  became  a 
fountain  of  eloquence  and  an  animated  conver- 
sation followed,  to  the  delight  equally  of  the 
General  and  his  caller. 

The  President  told  me  in  a gleeful  way  the 
story  of  his  first  purchase  of  a horse.  Speak- 
ing of  his  early  dislike  of  military  life  and  his 
horror  of  war: 

“I  did  not  want  to  be  a soldier.  When  my 
father  came  home  from  town  one  day  and  sur- 
prised me  with  the  information  that  I had  re- 
ceived an  appointment  to  West  Point  I said,  ‘I 
am  not  going.’  He  looked  at  me  and  replied,  ‘I 
think  you  are.’  Then  I thought  so,  too.  I don’t 
know  what  else  I could  have  been.  I should 
probably  not  have  succeeded  in  trade.  My  first 
purchase  was  made  when  I was  seven.  A neigh- 
bor had  a horse  which  he  was  willing  to  sell  for 
twenty-five  dollars.  My  longing  for  that  horse 
was  so  great  that  my  father,  though  knowing 
the  price  was  too  high,  told  me  that  I might 
offer  twenty  dollars  for  it,  and  if  the  neighbor 
would  not  take  that  I could  offer  twenty-two 
and  if  that  did  not  suffice  I might  pay  the 
twenty-five.  So  I went  to  the  man  and  told  him 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  295 


what  my  father  had  said.  It  would  not  be  diffi- 
cult to  solve  the  problem  of  the  cost  of  that 
horse.  The  boys  got  wind  of  the  story  and  you 
can  imagine  that  for  awhile  life  was  not  worth 
much  to  me. 

“It  may  be  that  I lost  money  on  that  horse, 
but  the  first  dollar  I ever  earned  was  on  a mule ; 
a circus  mule.  The  ringmaster  offered  a dol- 
lar to  anyone  who  should  succeed  in  riding  the 
mule  once  around  the  ring.  My  mind  was  made 
up  to  win  that  dollar.  I promptly  mounted  the 
animal  and  was  as  promptly  deposited  upon  the 
sawdust.  Asking  if  I might  have  another  trial 
I was  told  that  I might  have  as  many  as  I 
wanted.  This  time  I mounted  with  my  face 
toward  the  mule’s  tail,  which  so  disconcerted 
him  that  he  ambled  peacefully  around  the  ring 
and  I got  the  dollar.” 

At  West  Point  Cadet  Grant  took  the  highest 
leap  recorded  in  the  history  of  the  Academy. 
One  who  witnessed  the  feat  described  the  scene, 
— the  clean-cut,  blue-eyed  young  man  who  at  the 
call  of  the  riding-master  dashed  out  from  the 
ranks  on  a powerfully  built  chestnut  sorrel  horse 
and  rode  to  the  end  of  the  hall.  Turning  he  gal- 
loped down  the  center  toward  a bar  placed 
higher  than  the  head  of  a tall  man  standing. 
Within  a short  distance  of  the  bar  the  horse 
paused  and  gathering  all  his  strength  for  the 


296  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


mighty  effort  vaulted  over.  Forty  years  later 
Grant  remembered  the  steed  that  had  served 
him  so  well  and  said,  “York  was  a wonderful 
horse.”  After  the  war,  learning  that  his  old  rid- 
ing-master was  poor  and  helpless,  General 
Grant  sent  him  a cheque. 

The  old  soldier  never  claimed  to  have  dis- 
tinguished himself  in  scholarship  at  West  Point, 
but  he  must  have  made  an  impression  of 
strength  upon  those  around  him,  for  one  of  his 
classmates,  James  A.  Hardie,  said,  “If  a great 
emergency  arises  in  this  country  during  our 
lifetime  Sam  Grant  will  be  the  man  to  meet  it.” 

He  had  the  simplicity  characteristic  of  all 
really  great  minds,  and  the  directness  of  a sol- 
dier, going  straight  to  his  aim;  he  never  either 
overshot  or  undershot  the  mark.  He  spent  a 
part  of  every  day  walking  unattended  along  the 
streets  enjoying  exercise  and  open  air  unham- 
pered by  guards,  and  his  daily  rides  were  also 
usually  solitary,  for  in  his  racing  buggy  behind 
his  magnificent  trotter,  leaning  over  the  dash- 
board to  encourage  his  horse  by  a friendly  word, 
there  was  scarcely  anything  in  Washington  that 
could  have  kept  him  in  view.  Only  once  was  he 
passed  in  a race.  His  friend  and  clerk,  Lieu- 
tenant Culver  C.  Sniffen,  now  a General  on  the 
retired  list,  owned  a fine  horse  and  the  Presi- 
dent challenged  him  to  a race.  The  Lieutenant 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  297 


declined,  not  wishing  either  to  beat  the  Presi- 
dent or  be  beaten  by  him.  The  President,  with 
the  true  sporting-  instinct,  persisted  until  the 
Lieutenant,  fired  with  like  emulation,  yielded 
and  rode  to  win.  He  did  win  and  the  President 
was  very  fond  of  telling  the  story  of  the  only 
time  he  had  ever  lost  a race. 

General  Grant  had  one  sad  memory  connected 
with  a horse,  dating  back  to  the  time  when  he 
was  a young  officer  in  Mexico.  He  rode  a beau- 
tiful fierce  untamable  animal  that  in  years  past 
had  killed  a number  of  would-be  riders.  A 
Mexican  officer  who  was  a skilled  and  daring 
horseman  had  an  ambition  to  mount  the  horse. 
Lieutenant  Grant,  fearing  for  the  safety  of  his 
Mexican  friend,  would  not  consent  to  his  rid- 
ing so  dangerous  a beast.  The  Mexican  would 
not  let  himself  be  dissuaded  and  the  Lieutenant, 
fearing  that  the  friend'  might  think  that  he  did 
not  want  him  to  ride  his  horse,  ceased  his  oppo- 
sition. The  Mexican  mounted  and  was  thrown 
and  killed. 

Occasionally  when  it  could  not  be  avoided  the 
President  would  curb  his  wild  spirit  sufficiently 
to  take  a leisurely  drive  in  Mrs.  Grant’s  easy 
carriage  behind  the  tall  and  dignified  black 
coachman,  Hawkins,  attended  by  the  almost 
equally  imposing  footman,  Jerry.  Usually 
this  stately  equipage  was  left  to  the  unshared 


298  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


enjoyment  of  Mrs.  Grant  and  her  guests.  A 
number  of  pleasant  drives  I took  with  my 
hostess,  sometimes  into  the  country  around 
Washington,  and  sometimes  to  the  Soldiers’ 
Home  where  the  veterans  bivouacked  peacefully 
until  they  should  be  mustered  out  of  the  earthly 
army.  The  long  rows  of  white  wooden  slabs 
with  black  lettered  names  upon  them  brought 
back  vividly  memories  so  new  that  they  lay 
near  the  surface  of  my  heart. 

It  may  be  that  to  one  familiar  with  the  Wash- 
ington of  to-day  the  views  of  the  city  at  that 
time  would  have  been  marred  by  primitive 
architectural  features,  but  Nature  had  so  far 
done  her  best  in  the  beginning  that  one  might 
well  accept  the  opinion  of  Humboldt  who,  after 
visiting  all  the  cities  of  the  known  world,  said 
that  for  a site  the  entire  globe  does  not  hold  its 
equal.  The  youthful  surveyor,  long  before  he 
became  the  “Father  of  his  Country,”  wrought 
well  in  fancy  when  gazing  across  the  Potomac 
he  viewed  the  fair  prospect  with  prophetic  eye 
and  foresaw  a stately  capitol  of  a great  nation 
rising  from  one  of  its  green  hills.  So  well  had 
the  capital  city  weathered  the  storm  that  had 
almost  wrecked  the  Ship  of  State  that  one  who 
had  known  it  in  war  days  might  have  found  it 
beautiful  in  comparison. 

Inside  the  White  House  the  deft  fingers  of 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  299 


Martha  Johnson  Patterson  had  wrought  mir- 
acles of  adornment  out  of  the  web  of  her  imag- 
ination, aided  by  a few  simple  materials  which 
in  less  skillful  hands  would  have  been  ineffec- 
tive. Within  its  walls  life  went  on  to  the  time 
kept  by  Madison’s  clock  that  had  ticked  away 
all  the  decades  since  the  “Father  of  the  Con- 
stitution” held  guardianship  over  that  compli- 
cated child  of  many  variegated  phases. 

General  Grant,  as  head  of  the  United  States 
Army,  regarded  his  staff  as  his  military  family 
and  chose  its  members  according  to  his  desire. 
As  President  he  took  a similar  view  of  his  Cab- 
inet, looking  upon  it  as  his  civic  family,  and 
did  not  cast  a favorable  eye  upon  recommenda- 
tions made  by  politicians  who  wished  to  draw 
upon  him  for  the  payment  of  their  campaign 
debts.  Having  no  such  debts  of  his  own,  being 
tied  to  no  party  and  bound  by  no  pledges,  he 
felt  free  to  select  his  associates  as  he  thought 
best,  thereby  incurring  the  ill-will  of  party 
leaders  who  held  their  positions  by  heavy  mort- 
gages to  office-seekers.  I suppose  soldiers  have 
an  instinctive  aversion  to  politicians,  not  only 
because  they  make  war  but  because  they  insist 
upon  managing  it  throughout  its  whole  exist- 
ence. Thus  Grant  sought  his  advisers  in  non- 
political fields. 

The  President  was  severely  criticized  for  his 


300  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


appointment  of  Mr.  A.  T.  Stewart  as  Secretary 
of  the  Treasury,  in  contradiction  to  the  “nine 
statutes”  which  Mr.  Conkling  afterward  found 
to  bar  the  way,  but  the  wise  statesmen  of  the 
Senate  confirmed  the  appointment  with  eager 
promptness,  and  it  could  scarcely  be  demanded 
that  a soldier  with  more  opportunity  of  know- 
ing the  regulations  of  battlefields  than  the 
statutes  that  govern  political  administration 
should  be  better  informed  as  to  civic  laws  than 
those  who  have  devoted  a large  part  of  their 
lives  to  the  study  and  framing  of  such  laws. 
Failing  this  appointment  Governor  Boutwell,  a 
good  friend  of  the  President,  was  made  Secre- 
tary of  the  Treasury,  and  it  was  as  one  of  the 
most  trusted  advisers  in  the  Cabinet  that  I met 
him. 

The  sympathies  of  President  Grant  were  deep 
and  broad  and  sometimes  presented  humorous 
phases.  At  a Cabinet  meeting  one  day  he 
brought  up  the  case  of  a lawyer  whom  he 
thought  of  appointing  Chief  Justice  of  one  of 
the  territories,  expressing  pity  for  him  because 
he  had  lost  a leg  in  battle.  After  an  extended 
silence  the  Attorney-General,  Judge  Rockwood 
Hoar,  quietly  remarked,  “Mr.  President,  it 
seems  to  me  that  mere  absence  of  legs  is  not 
a sufficient  qualification  for  judicial  office.”  The 
other  members  looked  apprehensive,  but  the 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  301 


President  laughed  and  said  that  he  would  think 
of  it  further.  The  result  of  more  mature  re- 
flection was  that  some  one  else  was  appointed, 
presumably  with  the  normal  equipment  of  legs 
and  a fair  endowment  of  unquestionable  judicial 
merit. 

Attorney-General  Eockwood  Hoar  was  never 
averse  to  expressing  his  sentiments  in  rugged 
English,  but  his  somewhat  burry  aspect  and 
speech  covered  a good  healthy  heart  filled  with 
sympathetic  impulses.  His  wit  was  a shining 
blade  that  cut  more  deeply  than  he  intended, 
sometimes  to  his  regret,  but  his  eloquence  on  the 
finer  phases  of  life  was  a radiance  of  sunlight. 
The  true  depth  of  his  nature  was  shown  in  his 
kindness  to  all  who  needed  him. 

The  most  impressive  member  of  the  Cabinet 
was,  quite  appropriately,  the  head  of  the  State 
Department,  Secretary  Hamilton  Fish.  Six 
feet  tall,  of  distinguished  bearing,  with  strong 
face  surmounted  by  dark  curling  hair,  intense 
eyes  that  seemed  to  look  through  the  object  of 
their  gaze,  graceful  and  cultivated  manner,  he 
was  a noted  figure  in  any  assemblage.  His 
tact  and  statesmanship  kept  the  country  off  the 
diplomatic  reefs  on  which  it  might  have  been 
wrecked  by  a guiding  hand  less  firm.  Presi- 
dent Grant  said,  “History  will  write  that  we 
have  had  two  great  Secretaries  of  State,  Gov- 


302  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


ernor  Marcy  and  Governor  Fish.”  Mr.  Fish 
was  always  immaculately  dressed,  a distinctive 
mark  of  his  attire  being  a diamond  breastpin, 
which  he  always  wore  in  his  shirt.  He  suc- 
ceeded the  six-weeks’  term  of  Mr.  Elihu  B. 
Washburne,  who  was  transferred  to  Paris  and, 
as  Minister  during  the  stormy  period  of  the 
Franco-Prussian  War,  gained  the  admiration 
and  confidence  not  only  of  his  own  country  hut 
of  Europe  as  well  for  his  wise  and  patriotic 
service. 

The  President  and  my  Soldier  often  talked 
of  the  war,  discussing  it  from  their  opposite 
view-points.  Never  once  did  General  Grant  re- 
fer to  us  as  “rebels.”  He  always  mentioned  us 
as,  “You  fellows  on  the  other  side.” 

General  Grant  was  deeply  interested  in  the 
battle  of  Gettysburg,  of  which  he  knew  only  by 
report.  One  day  at  the  close  of  dinner  he 
asked  my  Soldier  to  explain  certain  movements 
in  the  final  charge.  To  make  the  inquiry  plainer 
he  drew  some  lines  on  the  table-cloth  with  the 
handle  of  a spoon.  My  Soldier  took  the  spoon 
from  the  President’s  hand  and  drew  upon  the 
cloth  a diagram,  briefly  explaining  as  he  went 
along : 

“Here  is  Seminary  Ridge;  there  Cemetery 
Ridge.  Here  is  Round  Top.  This  is  Meade’s 
left;  here,  Meade’s  right.  There  are  the  Con- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  303 


federate  troops  in  the  woods ; here,  Gettysburg. 
There  is  the  Fifth  Corps.  Here  are  the  bat- 
teries, and  there,  Hall’s  Brigade.  Here  are 
Cushing  and  Webb.  Here  is  Clark’s  Brigade; 
there,  a rail  fence.  Here  is  the  Third  Brigade.” 

Lining  off  a space  at  one  corner  to  enlarge 
the  vital  point  of  the  charge,  he  continued: 

“Here  is  the  turning  point  of  the  third  day. 
There,  the  stone  wall  we  crossed.  There  is 
Webb.  Here  is  the  Confederate  assault.  There 
is  where  Armistead  got  over;  here,  where  he 
fell.”  Drawing  his  hand  quickly  across  the  cor- 
ner beyond  he  added,  “There  is  hell !” 

“Bring  me  a blue  pencil,”  said  the  President 
to  a servant.  When  it  was  brought  he  carefully 
marked  over  the  lines  in  the  soft-laid  cloth  and 
carried  it  into  the  smoking-room. 

The  tenderest  memory  I have  of  President 
Grant,  because  it  is  the  one  closest  to  my  heart, 
is  of  him  and  my  Soldier  as  they  stood  facing 
each  other  in  the  President’s  office  just  before 
the  close  of  our  visit.  I can  see  them  now  look- 
ing earnestly  into  each  other’s  eyes,  one  of  Gen- 
eral Grant’s  hands  on  the  shoulder  of  his  old 
comrade  and  friend. 

Grant,  always  faithful  to  his  friends,  was  urg- 
ing upon  my  Soldier,  whom  the  war  had  im- 
poverished, the  marshalship  of  the  State  of  Vir- 
ginia, which  he  was  gratefully  but  firmly  declin- 


304  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


ing.  Later,  when  the  devotion  of  the  President 
to  his  old  friends  and  his  confidence  in  them  had 
given  his  enemies  an  opportunity  to  criticize 
with  undue  severity  his  habit  of  making  ap- 
pointments for  friendship  rather  than  politics, 
I appreciated  still  more  the  generosity  and  wis- 
dom of  my  Soldier’s  refusal.  Knowing  the  de- 
mands upon  the  President,  knowing  that  accept- 
ance of  the  appointment,  sorely  as  he  needed  it, 
would  create  for  the  administration  a host  of 
enemies,  he  said: 

“You  cannot  afford  to  do  this  for  me,  and  I 
cannot  afford  to  let  you  do  it.” 

“I  can  afford  to  do  anything  I choose,”  replied 
the  President. 

I shall  never  forget  the  gratitude  in  my  Sol- 
dier’s tear-dimmed  eyes  as  he  turned  them  upon 
the  President,  showing  his  appreciation  of  the 
friendship  and  sacrifice,  nor  General  Grant’s 
look  in  return,  nor  what  those  old  soldiers  did 
— never,  as  silently  shaking  hands  and  walking- 
off  in  different  directions  they  gazed  out  of  sep- 
arate windows,  and  I stole  away. 


XXXII 


UNCLE  TOM 

ONE  evening  just  after  the  New  York 
steamer  had  blown  her  three  whistles 
in  honor  of  my  Soldier,  as  the  river 
steamers  always  did  in  passing  our  wharf,  and 
had  gone  around  the  bend,  we  saw  Uncle  Tom, 
the  faithful  old  negro  fisherman,  coming  up 
the  hill  with  a bag  over  his  stooping  shoul- 
ders and  talking  to  himself  more  excitedly  than 
usual. 

“Good  evening,  Uncle  Tom,”  I said,  stepping 
off  the  porch  to  greet  him.  “What  have  you  in 
your  bag  for  me?” 

“Tarepins — dat’s  what  I got  fer  you,  but  I 
got  a piece  of  my  mind  fer  Marse  George,  en  ez 
dis  piece  of  mind  mought  not  agree  wid  your 
temperation  I reckon  you  better  g’long  in  de 
house  en  sing  some  of  dem  song  chunes  while  I’s 
mekin’  a present  of  de  piece  of  mind  to  Marse 
George.” 

As  my  curiosity  was  greater  than  my  fear 


305 


306  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


of  mental  indigestion,  I stayed  to  share  with 
my  Soldier  the  “piece  of  mind.” 

Uncle  Tom  proceeded  to  unfold  his  story  to 
the  effect  that  a carpet-bagger  who  had  come 
to  Bermuda  Hundred  was  inciting  the  colored 
people  against  my  Soldier  and  planning  with 
them  to  visit  us  in  force.  He  said  that  he  was 
a brother  of  one  of  the  same  class  of  human 
wreckage  who  had  visited  our  community  some 
time  before,  selling  to  the  negroes  ointment  that 
was  advertised  to  turn  them  into  white  people. 
My  Soldier  had  reported  the  enterprising  mer- 
chant and,  with  Mr.  “Buck”  Allen  and  Colonel 
John  Selden,  had  taken  to  Richmond  some  boxes 
of  the  ointment  and  some  of  the  negroes  to 
whom  the  ointment  had  been  sold,  and  the  “car- 
pet-bagger” had  been  put  in  jail.  His  brother 
was  now  inflaming  the  credulous  colored  people 
with  the  idea  that  my  Soldier  had  caused  the 
disappointment  of  their  ambitious  aspirations. 

The  man  who  thus  excited  Uncle  Tom’s  indig- 
nation and  apprehension  had  lain  in  the  river 
with  his  vessel  for  weeks,  sending  out  his 
emissaries  to  tell  the  poor  credulous  colored 
people  that  the  United  States  government  had 
authorized  him  to  promise  that  to  every  colored 
man  who  would  bring  him  a good  bridle  and 
saddle,  thereby  showing  his  fitness  for  the  pos- 
session, should  be  given  a mule  to  fit  the  saddle 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  307 


and  bridle,  and  that  he  would  receive  and  re- 
ceipt for  the  same  every  night  between  the 
hours  of  midnight  and  daybreak.  So  success- 
ful was  this  impostor  that  he  had  almost  made 
up  his  load  before  he  was  caught,  and  there 
was  hardly  a bridle  and  saddle  left  in  all  the 
surrounding  country. 

While  my  Soldier  had  confidence  in  Uncle 
Tom,  he  did  not  much  believe  that  the  negroes 
would  dare  make  an  attack  upon  him.  He  in- 
sisted, though,  that  I should  not  run  any  risk, 
but  should  take  our  babies  and  go  to  Richmond 
for  a few  days.  Finding  that  no  persuasion 
could  induce  me  to  leave  him,  he  consented 
that  we  might  wait  together,  fearing,  yet  not 
believing,  that  they  would  come. 

The  third  night  after  Uncle  Tom’s  warning, 
when  we  had  begun  to  hope  that  he  had  after 
all  been  misinformed,  we  heard  a rapping  at  the 
door  and  then  a low  growl. 

“That’s  Rufus,  rapping  on  the  door  with  his 
tail,”  said  my  Soldier.  “He  hears  something 
and  is  warning  us.  Listen!” 

He  opened  the  door  and  the  dog  entered, 
trembling  and  with  great  tears  of  fear  in  his 
loyal  eyes.  We  listened  but  heard  nothing. 
My  Soldier  came  in  and  shut  the  door. 

“Lay  the  baby  down,”  he  said,  “and  take  this, 
but  keep  it  out  of  sight,”  handing  me  a pistol. 


308  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


His  loaded  gun  was  resting  on  a bracket  just 
above  the  door.  Rufus  stood  pointing,  his  nose 
nearly  touching  the  panel  of  the  door.  My 
heart  seemed  almost  bursting  from  my  throat 
and  sounded  in  my  ear  like  the  beating  of  a 
drum.  The  baby  smiled  and  dreamed  aloud. 
While  we  listened  tensely  there  came  the  sound 
of  footsteps,  the  rolling  of  loose  dirt  and  brick- 
bats. 

“Listen!  They  are  coming  around  the  back 
way  and  across  the  ruins  of  the  old  house.  I 
hear  a number  of  steps,  but  they  are  uncertain 
steps.  Don’t  be  afraid,  dear;  be  your  own 
plucky  little  self.” 

“I  am  not  the  least  afraid,”  I answered,  my 
teeth  chattering  and  my  hands  trembling,  “not 
the  least,  Soldier.” 

Rufus  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  me  as  if 
he  had  heard  a stranger’s  voice,  and  then,  wag- 
ging his  tail  to  reassure  me,  returned  to  a dead 
point.  The  sounds  became  louder  and  the  surg- 
ing wave  rolled  nearer. 

One  who  has  never  beheld  a raging  sea  of 
black  faces  filled  with  excitement  and  fury,  wild, 
ignorant,  brutal,  some  distorted  with  intoxica- 
tion, cannot  form  the  faintest  idea  of  the  awful 
sight.  They  threatened  vengeance  against  my 
Soldier,  saying  that,  not  satisfied  with  fighting 
against  their  liberties,  he  was  now  trying  to 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  309 


keep  away  those  who  would  befriend  them. 
They  were  led  by  a renegade  white  man  who, 
when  they  reached  a point  where  possible 
danger  lay,  retired  from  leadership  and  with- 
drew to  a protected  spot  in  the  rear. 

My  Soldier  stepped  out  on  the  porch  and  con- 
fronted the  mob,  who  were  yelling,  cursing,  and 
brandishing  pistols,  knives,  and  all  manner  of 
weapons.  Looking  at  them  for  a few  seconds 
he  said: 

“Boys,  what  does  all  this  mean?  What  is  all 
this  trouble  about?  You  don’t  know  what  you 
are  doing.  That  cowardly  dog  there,  sneaking 
and  crouching  down  behind  you  to  save  his  own 
worthless  carcass,  is  not  your  friend.  For  a 
few  handfuls  of  money  he  will  lead  you  to  steal, 
lie  and  kill.  All  he  wants  is  what  he  can  make 
out  of  you.  Don’t  trust  him,  boys.  These  mis- 
erable Yankee  scalawags  haven’t  any  love  for 
you.  They  never  owned  any  negroes.  We  who 
owned  you  are  your  friends.  We  have  been 
brought  up  together  and  understand  each 
other.” 

“Dat’s  so,  niggers ; dat’s  so,”  cried  Uncle  Tom, 
who  had  come  up  with  the  mob  as  if  he  were  one 
of  them  in  spirit.  “You  better  listen  to  Marse 
George.  He  sho’  is  tell  in’  you  de  trufe,  nig- 
gers— de  gorspel  trufe.” 

“Stand  back ! Stand  back !”  cried  my  Soldier, 


310  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


suddenly  starting  forth  and  waving  both  hands. 
“Stand  back,  I say!” 

The  negroes  fell  back  on  both  sides  and  my 
Soldier  went  down  between  them  to  where  the 
white  renegade  was  cowering  behind  his  poor, 
ignorant,  impulsive  black  dupes,  and,  seizing 
him  by  the  collar,  shook  him  with  all  his  force. 
The  collar  broke  and  the  man  fell  to  the  ground. 
My  Soldier  jumped  on  top  of  him  and  called, 
“Bring  me  that  rope !”  pointing  to  the  clothes- 
line stretched  across  the  road.  “Come,  boys, 
let’s  tie  the  scoundrel!” 

After  they  had  securely  bound  him  the  Gen- 
eral ordered  some  of  them  to  pick  him  up  and 
carry  him  to  the  smokehouse  and  lock  him  in, 
which  they  did  with  great  satisfaction,  their 
mercurial  natures  having  now  veered  completely 
to  the  side  of  my  Soldier. 

“Now,  boys,”  said  he,  “get  into  your  boats  and 
go  back  home,  and  be  thankful  that  the  bad  man 
locked  up  there  in  the  haunted  smokehouse  with 
the  rats  and  ghosts  has  not  made  you  all  com- 
mit a crime,  too,  for  which  you  would  be  sent 
to  jail.” 

The  reference  to  the  spectral  inhabitants  of 
the  smokehouse  was,  for  the  colored  people,  a 
sufficient  bar  to  their  possible  change  of  senti- 
ment and  return  to  the  rescue  of  their  former 
leader.  They  believed  implicitly  in  the  un- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  311 


canny  reputation  of  that  house  and,  to  their 
view,  the  ghost  of  old  Grundy,  who  had  hanged 
himself  from  its  rafters  and  who,  as  the  story 
goes,  when  the  flames  were  devouring  the  old 
colonial  home  within  a stone’s  throw  of  it,  came 
out  shaking  his  fist  at  them,  thus  saving  the 
smokehouse  from  the  fire,  was  more  formidable 
than  the  armies  of  the  whole  world.  The  next 
morning  the  sheriff  took  the  prisoner  to  Rich- 
mond, where  he  was  jailed  and  promptly 
brought  to  trial.  He  was  found  guilty  of  incit- 
ing a riot  and  was  sent  out  of  the  country. 

Uncle  Tom  was  an  old  servitor  of  the  Pickett 
family.  He  had  been  at  Turkey  Island  when 
the  mansion  was  burned  and  had  contrived  to 
save  a few  relics  from  the  ruins.  Among  them 
was  a medallion  which  had  been  presented  to 
my  Soldier’s  grandfather  by  La  Fayette.  It 
was  set  in  gold,  framed  in  blue  velvet,  and  hung 
in  the  library  under  La  Fayette’s  picture.  As 
one  of  Butler’s  men  was  carrying  it  to  the 
steamer  the  medallion  fell  out,  and  Uncle  Tom 
picked  it  up  and  had  saved  it  all  these  years. 
In  his  own  logical  way  he  explained  the  selection 
of  the  one  to  whom  it  should  be  given. 

“I  done  studied  ’bout  dis  ’heritance  a heap,  en 
I says  to  myse’f,  ‘Well,  I gwine  to  give  dis  ’herit- 
ance to  Miss  Sally,  kase  she  Marse  George’s  wife 
en  Marse  George  he  is  de  oldest  chile.’  Den 


312  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


I says,  ‘No,  dat  ain’t  ret;  I gwine  to  give  it  to 
Miss  Lizzy,  kase  she  Marse  Charlie’s  wife  en 
Marse  Charlie  is  de  youngest  chile.’  Den  I says, 
‘No,  I gwine  let  de  wifes  ’cide  fer  darse’fs  which 
gwine  to  have  de  ’heritance,  en  I gwine  to  give 
it  to  de  one  dat  treats  de  ole  man  de  best.’ 

“So  de  Sunday  atter  dey  moved  down  I goes 
’roun’  to  Miss  Lizzy’s  house  en  she  axes  me 
‘Howdy?’  en  axes  me  how  Aunt  Lindy,  my  ole 
’oman,  sagashuates.  Den  she  say,  ‘Uncle  Tom, 
won’t  you  hat)  a toddy?’  En  I say,  ‘Yas’m,  Miss 
Lizzy,  thanky,  ma’m ; ole  nigger  alius  raidy  for 
a toddy.’  Den  she  mek  me  a gre’t  big  nice  toddy 
en  fetches  it  out  to  me  herse’f.  Den  she  say, 
‘Uncle'  Tom,  don’t  you  want  sump’n  to  eat?’  I 
say,  ‘Yas’m,  de  ole  man  alius  hongry.’  Den 
she  fetches  me  out  a pilin’  plate  of  vitals.  Den 
I say,  ‘Dat’s  Miss  Lizzy’s  ’heritance,  sho’ !’ 

“De  nex’ Sunday  I goes  ter  Miss  Sally’s  house, 
en  she  axes  me  ‘Howdy?’  too,  jest  as  ’spec’ful  as 
ef  I wuz  de  king,  en  den  she  axes  me  how  my 
ole  ’oman  is,  too,  en  I tells  her.  Den  she  say, 
‘Uncle  Tom,  don’t  you  want  a dram?’  ‘Yas’m,’  I 
says,  ‘Miss  Sally,  de  ole  man  alius  wants  a 
dram.’  Den  she  say,  ‘Well,  g’long  back  dar  to  de 
sideboa’d  en  he’p  yo’se’f.  Dar’s  de  canter  of  ole 
apple  jack  en  ole  London  dock;  you  jest  go  he’p 
yo’se’f,  Uncle  Tom.’  Den  when  I comes  ’long 
back  she  say,  ‘Uncle  Tom,  did  you  he’p  yo’se’f 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  313 


plent’ful?’  I say,  ‘Yas’m,  de  ole  man  alius  does 
dat.’  Den  she  say,  ‘Ain’t  yon  hongry?’  I say, 
‘Yas’m,  de  ole  man’s  alius  hongry.’  Den  she 
say,  ‘Well,  Uncle  Tom,  you  must  ’scuse  me,  hut  I 
fergot  to  ax  you  ’bout  bein’  hongry,  so  g’long 
back  to  de  dinin’  room  en  he’p  yo’se’f ; dar’s 
plenty  er  col’  ham  en  fried  chicken  en  pickle 
oyschers  en  ’zerbs  en  t’ings.  Ps  waitin’  for  de 
hunters  to  come  in  ’fo’  I puts  ’em  away,  so 
g’long  back  en  he’p  yo’se’f.’  ‘Name  of  God,’  I 
say,  ‘Marse  George’s  wife’s  gwine  to  git  dis 
hyer  ’heritance,  atter  all.’  Yas,  dat  ’heritance  is 
Miss  Sally’s,  sho’.” 

From  the  rim  of  gold  around  this  “ ’heri- 
tance,” as  Uncle  Tom  called  it,  my  Soldier  had 
made  two  pairs  of  beautifully  carved  bracelets, 
one  for  his  brother’s  wife  and  one  for  his  sister. 
The  miniature  was  made  into  a pin  for  me, 
which  I still  have  and  wear,  not  only  for  its 
quaint  prettiness  and  because  it  is  almost  the 
only  relic  of  all  those  old  household  treasures, 
but  in  memory  as  well  of  Uncle  Tom  and  of  La 
Fayette’s  appreciation  of  the  hospitality  of  old 
Turkey  Island. 


XXXIII 


“god’s  ’tisement” 

UPON  leaving  Canada  we  had  expected  to 
lose  Annie,  onr  faithful  nurse,  but  she 
interrupted  our  objections  to  taking  her 

with: 

“Howly  Fathers ! an’  sure  an’  phwat’s  to  be- 
come of  me  widout  the  baby  an’  leastwise, 
phwat’s  as  bad  an’  worse,  phwat’s  to  become  of 
the  baby  widout  me?” 

We  explained  that  wages  were  much  higher 
in  the  States  and  that  we  could  not  afford  to 
take  her.  She  begged  to  be  allowed  to  come 
at  any  sacrifice  of  her  own  interests,  so  we 
finally  consented,  resolving  that  she  should  lose 
nothing  by  her  loyalty. 

Annie  enjoyed  the  journey  and  the  visit  to 
New  York,  but  at  Norfolk  the  hundreds  of  negro 
stevedores  who  met  the  New  York  steamers 
frightened  her  nearly  to  death.  The  few  col- 
ored people  whom  she  had  seen  in  Montreal  and 
looked  upon  as  martyrs  and  saints  were  of  a 


314 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  315 


very  different  class  from  these.  When  I tried 
to  reassure  her  she  said  angrily : 

“Oh,  the  mother  of  ye  that  ye  are,  sure — be- 
ing afther  planning  to  have  one  of  these  black, 
howling,  writhing  craythurs  nursing  of  the  boy, 
the  dirty,  twisting  bastes ! It’s  meself  that’s 
afther  the  temptin’  of  Providence  to  be  a risk- 
ing of  me  own  grown-up  life  among  such  hay- 
thens,  a singin’  words  widout  any  meanin’,  the 
saints  save  us !” 

She  was  praying  and  counting  her  beads. 

In  my  father’s  home  there  had  been  only 
colored  servants,  and  my  father  and  brothers, 
the  most  courtly  of  men,  could  not  bear  to  see 
Annie  standing  in  their  presence  while  they  re- 
mained seated.  She  was  not  only  being  spoiled 
by  their  numerous  courtesies  and  gallantries, 
but  was  embarrassed  by  them,  feeling  herself  a 
servant  equally  with  the  colored  maids. 

Our  second  child,  little  Corbell,  was  three 
years  old  when  Annie  left  us  to  marry  a well-to- 
do  farmer,  a young  man  who,  in  his  rural  sim- 
plicity, recognized  no  superior.  I was  sorry 
to  part  from  her,  particularly  on  account  of 
Corbell’s  strong  aversion  to  colored  people. 
After  innumerable  failures  to  fill  her  place  a 
kinswoman,  noted  for  judgment  and  care  in  the 
selection  of  her  servants,  sent  me  her  own 
nurse  until  I could  secure  one  that  would  please 


316  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


me.  The  nurse  remained  three  days,  when  Cor- 
bell  took  the  situation  into  his  own  hands  and 
thus  explained  it  in  his  prayers : 

“Our  Father  who  art  in  Heaven,  please  send 
me  a white  nurse  because  nobody  else  can,  and 
because  when  black  hands  touch  me  my  soul 
crawls  all  around  inside  and  I get  icicles  and 
creepy  things  all  down  my  back,  and,  oh,  dear 
Lord,  our  Father  who  art  in  Heaven,  I’d  rather 
have  no  supper  than  have  their  black  hands  cut 
it  up  for  me,  and  I’d  rather  be  dirty  as  the  pigs 
than  have  them  wash  me,  and  I’d  rather  not  go 
out  doors  and  see  the  birds  and  flowers  and 
other  children  and  things  play  and  pick  the 
buttercups  that  the  policeman  don’t  care  if  we 
pick  because  they  grow  wild,  than  have  their  big 
black-white  eyes  watching  me.  So,  our  Father 
who  art  in  Heaven,  please  send  me  a white 
nurse  quick,  for  Christ’s  sake.  Amen!” 

“Don’t  you  know,  my  darling,”  I said,  “that 
all  the  Southern  children  have  colored  nurses. 
Your  mamma  had  one  and  loved  her  almost  like 
a mother.  God  made  the  colored  people.” 

“Well,  then,  there  must  have  been  a colored 
God  around  somewhere.” 

He  thought  that  the  black  God  must  be  very 
wicked  and  prayed  that  the  dusky  deity  might 
die  “and  let  the  white  God  make  all  the  people.” 

At  that  time  the  only  servants  in  Virginia 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  317 


were  colored.  Finding-  that  the  child  could  not 
become  accustomed  to  “black  hands”  and  that 
his  health  was  endangered  by  his  efforts  to  over- 
come a weakness  that  seemed  congenital,  we 
advertised  for  a white  nurse  but  with  no  suc- 
cess. Hearing  us  talk  about  advertising,  Cor- 
bell  asked  God  to  put  in  a “ ’tisement”  for  a 
white  nurse  for  him.  He  prayed  for  everything 
he  wanted  and  asked  the  Lord  to  do  things  for 
him  that  his  father  and  mother  could  not  do,  at 
the  same  time  begging  the  Father  in  Heaven 
not  to  let  us  know  that  he  had  appealed  to  a 
higher  power,  lest  our  feelings  be  hurt. 

We  were  staying  at  the  Ballard  and  Exchange 
Hotel  in  Richmond.  One  morning  as  we  were 
going  out  for  our  daily  ride  a beautiful  woman 
dressed  in  deep  mourning  was  standing  in  the 
hall.  With  a startled  expression  she  held  out 
her  hands  and  my  little  Corbell  ran  into  her 
arms,  exclaiming: 

“Oh,  you  are  the  dear,  good  God’s  ’tisement 
and  you  have  come  to  be  my  nurse  and  take  my 
’Carthy’s  place.  See,  our  mother,  see!  Black 
hands  won’t  ever,  ever  make  creeps  in  me  any 
more,  now  that  our  Father  who  art  in  Heaven 
has  sent  the  ’tisement  to  me.” 

The  stranger  clasped  the  child  to  her  heart, 
kissing  his  golden  curls  and  sweet  brown  eyes 
while  her  tears  fell. 


318  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


“Pardon  tliis  uncontrolled  emotion,  madam,” 
she  said,  ‘and  excuse  me,  please,  for  taking  such 
a liberty  with  your  child.  I have  just  passed 
through  a great  sorrow  and  am  very  nervous.” 

I led  her  to  our  rooms  where  she  sat  with  my 
little  darling  in  her  arms,  gazing  into  his  face 
lovingly  and  moaning,  “My  little  angel!  Oh, 
my  little  angel !”  He  took  out  his  tiny  handker- 
chief and  wiped  her  eyes  and  kissing  her  said: 

“Don’t  cry,  ’Tisement,  don’t  cry.  Come  and 
ride  with  our  mother  and  my  little  brother  and 
me  and  you  can  hold  me  in  your  lap ; come, 
’Tisement,  come.” 

She  rode  with  us,  sitting  beside  me,  holding 
my  little  Corbell. 

“Why  do  you  call  me  ’Tisement?”  she  asked. 

Corbell  explained  that,  hearing  us  talking 
about  advertising  for  a nurse  and  seeing  how 
we  had  failed,  he  had  sent  an  advertisement  to 
God  himself,  asking  for  just  the  kind  he  wanted, 
“and,”  he  added,  “I  knew  you  were  God’s  ’tise- 
ment as  soon  as  I saw  you.” 

When  we  returned  she  told  me  her  sad  story, 
the  tragic  story  of  a beautiful,  fair,  proud  wom- 
an with  the  one  black  drop  in  her  veins.  All 
her  loved  ones  were  gone,  her  beautiful  boy 
the  last  to  leave  her,  and  she  longed  for  little 
hands  to  soothe  away  her  pain.  She  stayed 
with  us  and  her  new-found  charge  saw  only  the 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  319 


pure  white  face,  the  delicate  soft  hands  that 
touched  him  lovingly,  and  knew  nothing  of  the 
dark  link  that  held  her  in  bondage  to  the  past. 

She  was  a devoted  nurse,  helpful  and  diplo- 
matic with  both  children,  but  it  was  on  Corbell 
that  she  showered  all  her  pent  up  love.  He  was 
very  fond  of  music  and  was  always  ready  to 
greet  the  dawn  with  a smile  and  a song.  Early 
one  morning  when  George  first  opened  his  eyes 
after  a night  in  the  better  world  of  dreams,  he 
heard  Corbell’s  flute-like  tones  in  the  strains  of 
“Where,  oh,  where  are  the  Hebrew  Children  ?” 
The  necessity  of  taking  up  the  tangled  threads 
anew  filled  his  little  heart  with  dismay,  and  with 
a sense  of  having  been  wronged  he  called  out : 

“Our  mother,  please  come  and  make  Corbell 
stop  singing  Where  are  the  Hebrew  Children?’ 
I don’t  know  where  the  Hebrew  Children  are 
and  I don’t  want  to  know.” 

Mary,  the  faithful  answer  to  God’s  “ ’tise- 
ment,”  volunteered  to  find  the  Hebrew  Children 
and  amid  her  suggestions  of  possible  places  in 
which  they  might  be  concealed,  peace  was  re- 
stored. 

Corbell  was  one  of  the  most  gifted  of  chil- 
dren. Not  only  could  he  sing,  but  he  was  quite 
an  artist  with  the  scissors,  and  at  a very  early 
age  could  cut  out  the  most  astonishing  repre- 
sentations of  birds  and  animals.  One  day  after 


320  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


an  illness  I thought  he  had  been  cutting  long 
enough  and  suggested  to  him  to  put  up  the  scis- 
sors lest  he  become  nervous  and  tired.  Click- 
click  went  the  scissors.  “Wait  till  I get  the 
meat  part  of  the  mule’s  mane  right,”  he  said. 
Several  times  I made  the  same  suggestion,  re- 
ceiving the  same  reply,  and  click-click-click  went 
the  scissors.  Then  forgetting  myself  I raised 
my  voice  and  commandingly  called,  “Put  those 
scissors  down,  sir,  this  minute !” 

Bang  went  the  scissors  across  the  other  side 
of  the  room  and  with  eyes  flashing  with  indig- 
nation he  cried  out : 

“Madam!  Do  you  think  that  Aunt  Mary 
Christ  would  have  spoken  to  her  little  boy  Jesus 
like  that?” 

“No,  my  darling,”  I said,  ashamed  of  myself, 
“and  I will  never,  never  again  speak  in  that  way 
to  you.”  And  I never  did. 

It  was  probably  the  first  time  that  the  Blessed 
Virgin  had  ever  been  spoken  of  as  “Aunt  Mary 
Christ,”  but  the  claim  of  relationship  was  not 
surprising,  as  put  forth  by  a little  Virginia  boy, 
since  in  the  Old  Dominion  elderly  ladies  or  those 
who  were  regarded  with  special  reverence  were 
always  addressed  as  “Aunt.” 

Our  nearest  neighbors  in  the  hotel  were 
Colonel  and  Mrs.  Parsons.  The  Colonel  had 
belonged  to  the  Federal  Army  and  after  the  war 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  321 


liad  brought  his  family  to  Richmond  to  live. 
His  children  had  some  toy  soldiers  with  which 
they  and  my  two  little  boys  would  fight  great 
battles,  the  Confederates  and  Federals  being 
permitted  to  win  alternately. 

Mr.  Davis  came  in  one  day  when  the  star  of 
victory  shone  on  the  Southern  side. 

“Hurrah,  boys,”  he  said.  “I  am  glad  I came 
to-day.  I like  to  see  the  Confederates  win.” 

“Wait,  wait,”  said  my  little  George,  “and  we’ll 
let  you  see  the  Federals  win.” 

“Ah,  my  little  man,”  replied  Mr.  Davis  in  his 
pathetic  voice,  “your  father  and  I have  seen 
the  Federals  win.” 

Corbell  was  always  interested  in  his  father’s 
fighting  in  Mexico.  Of  course  Mr.  Davis  far 
outranked  my  Soldier  in  that  war,  but  when  Cor- 
bell asked,  “Were  you  in  papa’s  Company,  Mr. 
Davis,  or  was  he  in  yours?”  rather  than  hold 
any  precedence  over  his  father  in  the  boy’s 
thought,  Mr.  Davis  replied: 

“If  I remember  correctly,  we  were  both  in 
each  other’s  Company,  I think,  my  son.” 

“Our  mama,”  said  Corbell,  after  Mr.  Davis 
had  gone,  “what  has  Mr.  Davis  got  in  his  throat 
that  makes  his  talk  sound  so  music-y?” 

The  summers  we  passed  at  the  Old  Green- 
brier White  Sulphur  and  the  Salt  Sulphur 
Springs,  the  hotels  in  both  places  being  kept 


322  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


by  brothers  who  had  served  in  my  Soldier’s 
Division. 

One  season  we  occupied  a cottage  with  Mr. 
Peabody,  the  great  philanthropist.  It  was  his 
last  visit  to  his  native  land,  the  summer  before 
he  died.  He  had  gone  to  the  Springs  in  the 
vain  hope  of  restored  health.  Looking  for 
my  little  Corbell  one  day  I found  him  in 
the  rooms  of  Mr.  Peabody  who,  with  weak  and 
trembling  hands,  was  signing  some  cheques. 
Corbell  was  sitting  on  his  knee,  watching  his 
work. 

“I  know  what  makes  your  hand  tremble,”  he 
was  saying.  “Our  mother  told  me ; she  says  it’s 
because  of  all  the  good  things  it  has  done  for 
God’s  people.” 

“Your  little  hand  does  not  tremble.  Aren’t 
you  glad?”  asked  Mr.  Peabody. 

“I’d  rather  have  trembly  hands  if  they  would 
help  me  to  do  good  to  all  the  people  like  yours,” 
replied  Corbell. 

In  the  last  summer  of  General  Lee’s  life  he 
was  at  the  “Old  White”  taking  the  waters.  Cor- 
bell had  been  ordered  to  drink  them,  too,  and 
emphatically  objected. 

“Don’t  drink  that  water,  General  Lee,”  he 
said.  “It  doesn’t  smell  good.” 

“But  you  drink  it,”  replied  the  General. 

“I  have  to;  they  make  me,”  responded  Cor- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  323 


bell  sadly.  “You  are  a man  and  they  can’t  make 
you.” 

“But  I like  it,”  asserted  the  General. 

Corbell  regretfully  confided  to  me  afterward : 

“They  call  him  a great  man,  our  mama,  and, 
oh,  he  likes  things  that  don’t  smell  good.” 

It  was  the  only  cloud  upon  his  confidence  in 
General  Lee. 

Coming  in  one  day  the  General  found  the  chil- 
dren building  block  houses. 

“Is  this  the  house  that  Jack  built?”  he  asked. 

“No,  sir,”  replied  Corbell.  “That’s  the  house 
that  George  built  and  this  is  the  house  that  Cor- 
bell built.  Jack  didn’t  build  any  houses  down 
this  way.” 

“Don’t  you  know  the  story?”  asked  General 
Lee.  “ ‘This  is  the  house  that  Jack  built.  This 
is  the  malt  that  lay  in  the  house  that  Jack 
built.’  ” 

“Yes,  sir,”  returned  Corbell,  “but  it  makes  me 
feel  weazley  to  keep  on  saying  the  ‘Jack  built’ 
part.” 

In  passing  out  of  the  dining-room  one  even- 
ing General  Lee  stopped  at  our  table  by  the 
door.  We  were  cracking  nuts,  which  reminded 
him  of  the  story  I had  told  about  the  young 
man  who  asked  for  “the  nut-busters.”  He  said 
to  Corbell: 

“Your  little  hands  are  not  strong  enough  to 


324  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


use  these  ‘nut-busters.’  Let  me  crack  your  nuts 
for  you.” 

“No,  thank  you,  General,”  replied  the  child. 
“Our  mama  says  that  we  may  eat  all  we  can 
crack  and  that  the  squirrels  don’t  have  anybody 
to  crack  their  nuts ; if  they  did  they’d  eat  too 
many,  too.  ’Course  she  don’t  want  to  hurt  our 
hands,  but  she  is  afraid  if  somebody  cracks  nuts 
for  us  we’ll  eat  too  many  and  be  sick.” 

The  General  said  if  that  was  the  case  he 
would  not  offer  to  crack  any  more  nuts  for 
little  children. 

I have  a tender  memory  of  a call  from  Gen- 
eral Lee  once  when  my  little  Corbell  was  very 
ill  at  the  Ballard  and  Exchange.  One  morning 
Uncle  Wash,  the  old  colored  porter,  tiptoed  in 
with  a card. 

“It’s  Marse  Genul  Lee,  Missus,”  he  whispered. 
“He  come  ter  ax  atter  de  li’le  man,  en  he  say  he 
moughty  sorry  to  hyer  boutn  his  being  so  bad 
off.  He’s  ret  out  hyer  at  de  do’.” 

I went  to  the  door  and  held  out  my  hand  to 
General  Lee. 

“I  have  heard  of  the  illness  of  my  little  friend 
and  have  come  to  see  him.” 

My  Soldier  got  up  from  the  side  of  the  bed 
and  brought  a chair. 

“I  have  come  to  renew  my  acquaintance, 
George,  with  our  little  man  here,”  he  said,  call- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  325 


ing  my  Soldier  by  his  name,  which  I had  never 
before  heard  him  do. 

He  was  President  at  that  time  of  Washington 
College,  now  the  Washington-Lee  University,  at 
Lexington,  and  this  was  the  last  time  he  was 
ever  in  Richmond. 

General  Lee’s  fondness  for  children  made  him 
always  a great  favorite  with  them,  and  he  and 
our  little  Corbell  discussed  the  Old  White,  its 
nasty  smelling  sulphur-water,  and  the  many 
friends  they  had  made  there.  Holding  up  his 
little  thin  hand,  Corbell  said: 

“See,  General,  how  wobbly  my  hand  is.  It’s 
a heap  tremblier  than  Mr.  Peabody’s  was.  I 
can  write  my  name  now,  but  I can’t  write  it  to 
do  good  with  and  to  give  things,  as  Mr.  Peabody 
did;  I wish  I could.  My,  wouldn’t  I make  it 
fly?” 

“Your  dear  little  hand  does  more  good  than 
it  could  possibly  do  by  writing  your  name  on 
paper,”  replied  General  Lee.  “It  is  a hand  of 
love  and  that  is  better  than  anything  else  in  the 
world.  I saw  Dr.  Minnegerode  and  he  told  me 
how  sick  you  had  been  and  how  patient  and 
sweet  you  were  and  how  hard  you  were  trying 
to  get  well.” 

“Dr.  Minnegerode  wasn’t  a soldier  like  you 
and  our  papa,  was  he?”  asked  our  little  darling, 
shaking  his  head  and  changing  the  subject. 


326  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


“Yes,”  replied  General  Lee,  “but  be  did  not 
fight  with  a sword.  He  is  a preacher,  a Bible 
teacher,  and  fights  with  the  spirit.” 

“That’s  poetry,  isn’t  it?”  asked  Corbell. 

“Yes ; that  is  poetry.” 

“General,  Dr.  Minnegerode  always  says  his 
prayers  with  me  and  asks  the  Lord  to  bless  me 
and  make  me  well,”  said  Corbell. 

“May  I say  my  prayers  with  you,  too,  my  boy, 
and  ask  the  Lord  to  make  us  both  well  and  bless 
us?” 

“Yes,  General,  but  you  are  a soldier,  not  a 
preacher.” 

“No,  I am  neither  now,  my  little  man,”  re- 
plied the  General;  “just  a poor,  sick,  helpless 
child  like  you,  asking  for  health.” 

He  knelt  by  the  bedside  and  prayed  the  most 
beautiful  prayer  I ever  heard. 

It  was  the  last  time  I saw  General  Lee. 


XXXIV 

CHARLOTTE  CUSHMAN 

AFTER  the  failure  of  the  military  system 
of  agriculture  developed  at  Turkey  Is- 
land my  Soldier  became  the  general 
agent  for  the  South  of  a life  insurance  company. 
His  office  was  in  Richmond,  where  his  boyhood 
had  been  spent  and  where  we  had  many  pleasant 
friends  and  old  associations. 

Though  living  a life  of  deep  earnestness,  my 
Soldier  was  fond  of  a story  or  a jest.  He  used 
to  tell  some  of  Lincoln’s  jokes  and  anecdotes 
which,  in  his  youthful  days  in  Illinois,  he  had 
heard  from  the  lips  of  that  famous  story-teller, 
so  that  when  I afterward  saw  the  stories  of  the 
great  War  President  in  print  I remembered 
many  of  them  as  old  friends.  Mr.  Lincoln  was 
much  interested  in  the  plantation  legends  told 
by  the  Virginia  boy  and  they  exchanged  stories, 
to  the  delight  of  both. 

My  Soldier  especially  liked  a joke  if  it  was 
upon  me.  On  leaving  home  for  a business  trip 

327 


328  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


lie  once  asked  me  how  much  money  I should 
need  before  his  return.  After  a labored  calcu- 
lation I mentioned  a sum  which  he,  knowing  me, 
promptly  doubled.  He  had  been  gone  only  a 
day  when  I suddenly  recalled  an  obligation  that 
had  escaped  my  memory,  and  telegraphed  him. 
By  next  mail  came  a cheque,  carefully  made  out, 
payable  to  “Mrs.  Oliver  Twist.”  As  I must 
have  the  money  it  was  necessary  for  me  to 
indorse  it  as  it  was  made  out.  To  tease 
me  he  kept  the  cheque  to  dangle  before  my 
eyes  on  the  slightest  provocation,  and  I have 
it  now. 

He  always  made  companions  of  our  boys  and 
joked  and  played  with  them  as  if  he  were  the 
same  age  as  they.  One  morning  when  our  little 
George  was  about  ten  years  old  he  took  him  to 
the  office  several  blocks  from  home,  sending  him 
back  with  a note,  telling  him  to  go  directly  home 
and  not  to  get  into  any  trouble  on  the  way. 
Then  he  followed  him,  watching  his  progress. 
I still  have  the  note  in  which  were  recorded  the 
little  fellow’s  meanderings,  of  which  this  is  a 
copy: 

“Saw  a man  posting  bills;  stopped  to  watch 
him.  Went  on  a short  distance;  saw  two  dogs 
fighting.  Stopped  to  see  which  beat;  sicked 
them  on  again.  Farther  along  saw  something 
interesting  in  a drug-store  window;  stood  and 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  329 


looked.  Started  on  and  came  to  some  boys  play- 
ing marbles;  stopped  and  took  a hand  in  the 
game;  lost  all  his  own  marbles,  paid  np  like  a 
man,  walked  on,  whistling.  Came  to  a man 
shoveling  coal ; helped  him,  and  pocketed  some 
small  pieces.  Met  a man  he  knew;  stopped  and 
talked  to  him,  asked  the  time.  Played  in  a pile 
of  sand  with  a stick.  Had  a fight  with  Wirt 
Robinson ; licked  each  other.  Found  a boy  who 
had  lost  a penny  down  a crack;  helped  him  to 
get  it  out.  Saw  a kitten  escaping  from  a cellar 
window ; chased  it  back.  Met  a boy  on  stilts ; 
made  him  get  down  and  let  him  walk  on  them. 
Saw  an  old  woman  coming  out  of  the  doorway 
with  a bucket  of  water  on  her  head ; jumped  at 
her,  frightening  her,  making  her  head  lose  its 
balance,  spilling  the  water  all  over  her.  Turned 
his  pockets  inside  out  and  gave  the  old  woman 
all  his  week’s  allowance,  as  compensation  for 
the  wetting  he  had  caused.  Reached  the  gate ; 
stopped  to  play  with  the  latch.  Went  in.  Time 
in  reaching  home,  one  hour  and  twenty-five  min- 
utes.” 

The  report  was  sent  by  a messenger,  who  de- 
livered it  to  me  before  little  George  came  into 
the  house,  so  that,  to  his  great  surprise,  I was 
able  to  tell  him  all  that  he  had  been  doing. 
When  I showed  him  the  record  he  said : 

“I  knew  dear  father  was  a great  man  and 


330  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


knew  most  everything,  but  I didn’t  know  he  had 
God’s  eyes  and  could  see  everything.” 

To  my  query  whether  he  had  done  anything 
else  by  the  way  which  his  dear  father  had  not 
seen,  he  replied: 

“Yes;  I threw  Branch  Barksdale’s  hat  over 
the  fence,  and  I wouldn’t  have  been  home  yet  if 
he  hadn’t  chased  me.” 

Charlotte  Cushman  was  with  me  at  the  time 
and  I had  an  amusing  illustration  of  the  way  in 
which  she  unconsciously  threw  herself  into  a 
situation. 

“Poor  little  man ! Poor  little  man !”  she  said 
in  her  deep  sympathetic  voice,  as  she  observed 
the  bewilderment  of  the  child,  expressed  in 
every  line  of  his  tense  little  body,  his  puckered 
features  and  bent  fingers.  “His  little  brain  is 
all  puckered  up,  too.  He  can’t  understand  how 
this  thing  should  have  come  to  him.  Poor  little 
man ! It  is  wicked  to  mystify  him  so— bless  his 
little  heart !” 

In  her  sympathy  she  had  assumed  the  pose  of 
the  bewildered  child,  and  her  face  and  hands 
were  “puckered  up,”  as  she  had  described  his 
brain. 

This  was  Miss  Cushman’s  last  visit  to  Rich- 
mond, when  she  came  as  a reader,  having  left 
the  dramatic  stage.  When  I first  knew  her  she 
was  at  the  height  of  her  wonderful  career  as 


“i  KNOW  DEAR  FATHER  WAS  A GREAT  MAN  AND  KNEW 
MOST  EVERYTHING,  BUT  l DIDN’T  KNOW  HE 
HAD  GOD’S  EYES  AND  COULD 
SEE  EVERYTHING” 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  331 


an  actress.  I met  her  at  the  house  of  a friend, 
and  she  often  visited  me  when  in  Richmond. 
She  became  very  fond  of  our  children  and  they 
were  fascinated  by  her.  My  little  Corbel!  asked 
her: 

“What  is  the  use  of  acting?  Why  don’t  you 
be  it — just  be  it?” 

“Ah,”  she  replied,  “there  is  the  trouble.  I do 
‘be  it,’  my  child.  There  is  where  strength  and 
vitality  go — in  just  being  it.” 

Corbell  was  anxious  to  see  her  play,  but  she 
would  not  let  him  see  her  as  Meg  Merrilies. 

“No  Meg  Merrilies  must  ever  come  into  the 
life  of  a child  like  that,”  she  said.  “Of  all  the 
people  I have  ever  known,  he  would  be  the  most 
deeply  impressed  by  Meg  Merrilies.” 

A friend  had  sent  in  some  birds  for  Corbell, 
and  he  said  to  Miss  Cushman : 

“I  wasn’t  brought  up  thinking  it  any  wrong 
to  shoot  birds  or  any  wrong  to  eat  birds,  and 
all  the  good  people  I know  shoot  them  and  eat 
them.  But  things  that  have  such  pretty 
feathers  and  such  pretty  talk  in  their  throats 
must  have  souls,  and  so  I don’t  know  for  sure 
about  shooting  them  and  eating  them,  not  for 
really,  truly  sure,  you  know.” 

“I  think  you  are  right,  my  child,  about  the 
birds  having  souls,  and  I believe  horses  and 
dogs  have  souls,  too.  You  know,  dear,  I believe 


332  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


in  reincarnation.  We  eat  the  body  of  the  bird, 
the  feathers  we  put  in  our  cap,  and  the  soul  is 
the  voice  that  must  sing’  in  another  bird.” 

After  that  Corbell  did  not  feel  so  bad  about 
the  shooting  of  the  birds.  “The  soul  goes  out 
and  another  bird  catches  it  and  sings.” 

Charlotte  Cushman  told  me  how  her  idea  of 
Meg  Merrilies  had  come  to  her.  On  the  evening 
of  the  day  that  she  had  been  unexpectedly  called 
upon  to  play  the  character  she  was  standing 
in  the  wing  awaiting  her  cue,  book  in  hand,  when 
she  heard  one  of  the  gypsies  say,  “Meg — why, 
she  is  no  longer  what  she  was ; she  doats.”  In 
a flash  there  came  to  her  the  conception  of  the 
character  in  which  she  was  to  make  her  greatest 
success. 

I never  saw  her  Lady  Macbeth  on  the  stage, 
but  retain  a vivid  impression  of  the  awesome 
personation  when  she  showed  me  in  my  own 
room  how  she  had  played  the  sleep-walking 
scene  upon  her  first  appearance  in  drama  when 
she  was  nineteen.  I still  see  her  tragic  face 
with  the  dawning  horror  creeping  over  it  as 
she  looked  at  the  stain  on  her  hand.  With  the 
sudden  impulse  of  a frightened  woman,  she 
hurriedly  took  up  a fold  of  her  dress  to  rub 
it  off.  The  futility  of  the  effort  flashing  upon 
her,  she  removed  her  clutch  from  her  dress  and 
a deeper  terror  gloomed  into  her  face.  She 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  333 


caught  up  her  long  hanging  hair  and  tried  to 
rub  away  the  stain.  With  her  great  awe-com- 
pelling eyes  fixed  upon  her  hand  she  uttered 
the  words,  “Out,  damned  spot!”  in  a tone  of 
anguished  despair  that  thrilled  me  with  terror. 
She  did  not  act  Lady  Macbeth;  she  was  Lady 
Macbeth  in  all  her  pride,  all  her  ambition,  all 
her  determination,  all  her  despair.  She  said 
that  she  did  not  like  to  play  the  character  be- 
cause it  exhausted  her.  It  is  easy  to  under- 
stand that  a woman  of  cold  and  unscrupulous 
ambition  would  drain  the  life  of  one  so  gentle 
and  sweet-natured  as  Charlotte  Cushman. 

In  this  engagement  she  did  not  play  Nancy 
Sikes,  but  she  gave  us  her  characterization  of 
the  part  because  my  Soldier  wanted  to  see  it. 
Lawrence  Barrett  described  it  accurately  when 
he  said:  “It  sounded  as  if  she  spoke  through 
blood.”  She  was  one  of  the  few  to  whom  a set 
stage  with  scenery  and  music  and  costumes  and 
an  audience  are  not  necessary  in  the  production 
of  artistic  effects.  A private  room,  or  a grassy 
plot  under  a tree,  or  an  open  space  in  the  sun- 
shine, was  all  the  stage  she  required,  one  soul 
that  understood  her  was  audience  enough,  and 
when  she  threw  herself  into  the  character  she 
represented  no  one  would  have  known  whether 
she  wore  the  garb  of  a beggar  or  a queen. 

I told  her  of  having  met  Ellen  Tree  in  Canada. 


334  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


“Oh,”  she  said,  “that  was  worth  losing  your 
name  for,”  referring  to  the  fact  that  in  Canada 
the  General  and  I were  known  by  our  middle 
name  of  Edwards.  “The  very  fact  that  she 
could  not  keep  from  acting  when  off  the  stage 
made  her  interesting.  Did  you  ever  see  her 
wipe  her  nose?” 

I never  had,  so,  to  illustrate  Ellen  Tree’s  man- 
ner of  performing  that  ceremony,  Miss  Cush- 
man slowly  and  mysteriously  drew  her  handker- 
chief from  her  pocket.  As  she  did  so  her  eyes 
opened  wide  and  glared  ominously,  as  if  some 
scene  of  tragic  import  were  looming  up  in  the 
middle  distance.  Her  form  was  tense  and  rigid, 
all  her  muscles  drawn  taut  as  if  for  a fatal 
spring.  The  handkerchief  was  lifted  and  applied 
to  each  nostril,  while  the  face  was  stem  and  un- 
compromising as  might  have  been  that  of  the  no- 
ble Roman  sentencing  his  son  to  death  for  break- 
ing the  law.  The  handkerchief  was  returned  to 
her  pocket  in  the  same  dramatic  manner. 

“The  blood  of  all  the  Caesars  was  on  that 
handkerchief  when  it  was  put  away,”  Charlotte 
said.  “Ellen  Tree  could  not  help  acting ; it  was 
her  nature.” 

Ellen  Tree’s  everyday  tragedy  was  sometimes 
productive  of  startling  results.  Going  into 
Price’s  dry-goods  store  in  Richmond  she  asked 
in  her  most  dramatic  voice : 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  335 


“Have  ye  any  prints?” 

“N-n-no,  no,  dear  Madam,”  stammered  the 
gallant  but  startled  Virginian,  “I — I’m  sorry.” 

One  of  the  clerks  came  to  his  assistance  with 
the  information  that  the  lady  meant  calicoes,  at 
the  same  time  taking  down  some  pieces  from  the 
shelf.  The  customer  examined  them  with 
tragic  significance  and  looked  up  with  eyes  filled 
with  fathomless  depths  of  emotion,  inquiring 
in  a voice  of  intense  power,  dwelling  with 
dramatic  force  upon  each  word: 

“Said  ye  they  woidd  wash?” 

“N-n-no,  Ma’am,”  replied  the  terrified  clerk, 
“I  d-d-did  not,  Ma’am.” 

Charlotte  Cushman’s  manner  was  the  opposite 
of  that  of  Ellen  Tree.  She  was  a perfect  child 
of  Nature,  and  one  meeting  her  would  have 
supposed  that  she  was  a gentle,  quiet  home- 
keeper  with  no  thought  except  to  please  her  own. 

Speaking  of  Joe  Jefferson  she  said: 

“I  think  his  paintings  are  as  marvelous  as  his 
acting,  and  the  colors  in  his  voice  blend  as  per- 
fectly as  those  in  his  paintings.  He  really  must 
have  had  a dog  named  Schneider  when  he  was 
playing  Eip  Van  Winkle,  and  if  you  had  told 
him  differently  he  would  not  have  believed  you. 
He  could  fool  himself  into  thinking  that  what- 
ever he  acted  was  a fact,  and  his  audience  read- 
ily took  the  same  view.”  » 


336  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


Once  when  Charlotte  Cushman  was  with  us 
Judge  Moncure,  then  an  old  man,  came  in  and, 
meeting  his  wife,  greeted  her  with  great  chival- 
ry, bending  and  kissing  her  hand.  Judge 
Joynes,  of  Petersburg,  asked,  “How  old  is  Mrs. 
Moncure,  Judge?”  Judge  Moncure  replied, 
“She  was  sixteen  when  I married  her,  Judge, 
and  to  me  she  has  been  that  age  ever  since.” 

The  little  incident  reminded  Charlotte  of  the 
Brownings,  whom  she  had  known  in  Florence, 
and  of  the  beautiful  compliments  that  Robert 
Browning  used  to  pay  his  wife.  She  spoke  of 
his  indignation  when  Mrs.  Browning’s  poetry 
was  compared  with  his  own  in  a manner  un- 
favorable to  her.  He  really  felt  that  she  was 
superior  to  himself  and  had  no  patience  with 
people  who  could  not  appreciate  her  greater 
merit. 

Miss  Cushman  told  me  that  of  all  the  parts 
she  had  ever  played  she  most  enjoyed  Romeo, 
which  she  used  to  play  to  her  sister’s  Juliet. 

She  was  fond  of  dialects,  saying,  “Everything 
is  more  fascinating  than  plain  English.”  In 
Ireland  she  talked  the  brogue  with  the  peasants 
so  well  that  she  might  have  passed  for  one  of 
them.  She  was  equally  at  home  with  Scotch, 
German  and  Italian  dialects,  and  when  in  the 
North  had  been  noted  for  recitations  in  negro 
speech,  which  she  thought  the  most  beautiful 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  337 


of  all.  But  on  coming  to  Richmond  she  found 
that  she  did  not  know  anything  about  the  lingo 
of  the  darkies.  Being  anxious  to  learn  it,  she 
used  to  talk  with  old  Wash  and  Julia,  two  his- 
torical characters  at  the  Ballard  and  Exchange 
Hotel,  repeating  their  expressions  over  and 
over.  Later  she  would  try  to  say  them,  finding 
that  she  was  no  more  expert  than  in  the  begin- 
ning. Thus  she  learned  that  to  know  plantation 
talk  one  must  be  born  to  it;  it  cannot  be 
acquired. 

She  was  at  that  time  victim  to  a painful  and 
wasting  disease.  Seeing  her  suffering  one  day 
from  the  treatment  for  the  malady,  I said: 

“Oh,  I am  so  sorry ! You  can’t  play  to-night.” 

“Yes,  my  dear,”  she  replied  gently,  “I  shall 
play  to-night,  and,  it  may  be,  all  the  better  for 
the  pain.” 

Watching  her  wonderful  performance  that 
evening  I thought  it  might  be  that  pain  is  the 
gateway  to  the  highest  realm  of  art. 

The  last  time  I saw  Charlotte  Cushman  was 
in  Philadelphia.  A great  sorrow  had  shrouded 
me  from  the  sunlight,  and  she  tried  to  shelter 
me  in  the  warmth  of  her  own  heart. 

“You  ought  to  have  been  an  actress,”  she  said, 
“and  then  you  would  have  regained  happiness 
by  simulating  it.” 

Another  of  our  friends  from  the  mimic  world 


338  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


was  Joe  Jefferson,  whom  we  saw  now  for  the 
first  time  since  meeting  him  in  Canada.  On 
coming  to  Richmond  he  found  that  his  old 
friend,  Mr.  Caskie,wlio  had  helped  him  to  a foot- 
hold upon  life,  had  lost  his  fortune  by  the  war, 
and  was  in  even  greater  need  than  the  unknown 
boy  had  formerly  been.  The  famous  comedian 
was  not  one  to  forget  a kindness.  “Let’s  give 
him  a benefit,”  he  said  to  my  Soldier.  It  was 
characteristic  of  Joe  Jefferson  that  he  never 
said  “I  will  do”  thus  and  so.  He  said  “Let’s  do 
it,”  as  if  the  success  of  the  project  depended 
upon  the  one  to  whom  he  was  talking  rather 
than  on  his  own  ability.  The  benefit  was  given 
and  the  man  of  ruined  fortunes  had  reason  to 
be  glad  that  in  the  days  of  the  full  larder  he 
had  “cast  his  bread  upon  the  waters.” 


XXXV 

EASTER  FLOWERS 

THE  old  Ballard  and  Exchange  Hotel  in 
Richmond,  Virginia,  celebrated  for  hav- 
ing entertained  more  distinguished  visi- 
tors than  any  other  hostelry  in  this  country, 
consisted  of  two  houses  on  opposite  sides  of  the 
street,  connected  by  one  of  the  most  picturesque 
bridges,  where  the  guests  found  a pleasant 
meeting  place  as  they  passed  from  one  building 
to  the  other. 

Colonel  Carrington,  the  proprietor,  was  a 
courtly,  gallant  and  hospitable  old  Virginia 
gentleman,  a peer  of  peers,  yielding  to  no 
superiority  of  position,  as  was  evidenced  in  his 
reception  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  on  his  visit  to 
Richmond.  After  cordially  shaking  hands  with 
the  royal  visitor  he  slapped  him  on  the  back 
and  said: 

“Make  yourself  at  home,  Prince,  make  your- 
self at  home,  sir.  I extend  to  you  my  heartiest 
welcome,  sir.  Old  Wash  will  look  after  you 

339 


340  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


and  if  I can  be  of  any  service,  Prince,  just  call 
on  me.” 

I never  heard  whether  the  Prince  returned 
the  Colonel’s  slap  but  I know  that  he  accepted 
the  cordiality  in  the  same  spirit  in  which  it  was 
offered.  He  visited  the  Colonel’s  stables  and 
discussed  the  pedigree  of  his  fine  thoroughbred, 
drove  with  him  behind  his  fastest  trotter,  and 
so  liked  the  old  Virginia  mint  juleps  which  he 
drank  with  his  host,  that  he  asked  for  and  re- 
ceived the  recipe  for  making  them  and  took  it 
back  with  him  to  the  motherland,  with  some 
mint  roots  to  plant  in  his  palace  garden. 

The  Colonel  was  our  life-long  friend  and  de- 
voted to  our  children  who,  while  they  returned 
his  affection,  stood  in  awe  of  him  from  the 
time  that  he  gave  them  a graphic  illustration, 
by  pulling  his  wig  awry  and  turning  his  eye- 
lids wrong  side  out,  of  what  had  happened  to 
“peeping,  prying,  inquisitive  Jerry.” 

On  our  return  from  Salt  Sulphur  Springs  the 
summer  our  little  Corbell  was  in  his  eighth  year, 
as  we  drove  up  to  the  Exchange  Hotel  the  dear 
old  Colonel  came  out  to  the  carriage  and  said : 

“Your  rooms  are  all  ready,  General.  We  re- 
ceived your  telegram  and  prepared  for  your 
coming,  but  we  have  two  cases  of  measles  here, 
so  I have  arranged  to  have  you  taken  care  of  at 
the  Monumental  Hotel  till  the  danger  is  over.” 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  341 


We  thought  it  best  not  to  run  any  risk,  and 
went  to  the  Monumental.  The  rooms  were  large 
and  comfortable.  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Barksdale  were 
the  first  to  greet  us.  They,  too,  with  several 
others  of  our  friends  who  had  little  children, 
had  been  obliged  to  leave  the  Exchange  for  the 
same  reason. 

Our  precautions  proved  in  vain,  for  my  sister, 
a young  lady  just  entering  society,  who  was 
staying  with  us,  was  stricken  with  the  disease, 
and  my  schoolboy  brother  and  my  two  children 
caught  the  contagion.  At  the  end  of  three 
months,  however,  all  were  well  except  our  beau- 
tiful, gifted,  wonderful  boy,  our  little  Corbell, 
always  a delicate  child,  who  now  became  weaker 
day  by  day. 

There  was  never  anything  like  the  goodness 
of  the  people  of  Richmond  in  those  trying 
months.  Relatives,  friends  and  strangers  came 
daily  with  toys,  books,  good  things,  carriages,  as 
long  as  we  could  take  our  darling  to  ride,  for 
his  beautiful  angel  face,  his  wonderful  mind  and 
his  glorious  voice  had  won  a place  in  every  heart. 

While  Corbell  was  ill  Mr.  Davis  called  on  us 
for  the  last  time,  as  he  was  never  again  in  Rich- 
mond. When  he  came  in  I drew  up  a chair  for 
him,  but  he  said : 

“May  I not  sit  on  the  bed  beside  our  sick 
boy?” 


342  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


When  Corbell’s  lunch  was  brought  in  he  asked 
that  luncheon  be  brought  for  Mr.  Davis,  to  which 
Mr.  Davis  added  his  voice. 

“Shall  I say  grace,  Mr.  Davis,  or  will  you?” 
asked  the  child. 

“You,  if  you  please,”  Mr.  Davis  replied,  “for 
I should  like  to  hear  your  grace.” 

Closing  his  beautiful  eyes  Corbell  said  the 
grace  his  father  had  taught  him : 

“Dear  Jesus,  be  our  Guest  to-day,” 

adding,  “and  never  mind,  Jesus,  about  Mr. 
Davis  being  here  for  he  would  like  to  have 
you.” 

I do  not  think  that  the  child  took  his  eyes  from 
Mr.  Davis’s  face,  except  to  say  grace,  during  the 
whole  time  the  visitor  was  there.  Oh,  but  that 
face  was  so  awfully,  so  pathetically  changed! 
Every  expression,  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the 
look  in  his  eyes,  all  betokened  a broken  heart. 
Only  the  harmony  of  motion  and  the  melody  of 
tone  remained. 

On  Good  Friday  night,  seven  months  after- 
ward, in  sorrowful  tones  one  and  then  another 
of  my  friends  as  they  left  me  for  the  night  whis- 
pered resignation  to  the  will  of  God.  Our  Cor- 
bell was  dying.  All  through  the  long  weary 
night  my  Soldier,  Mary  and  I breathlessly 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  343 


watched  and  listened  beside  him.  As  we  were 
moving  softly  about  the  room  he  said: 

“Pm  not  asleep,  our  mama.  ’Tisement 
thought  I was  dreaming  ’cause  I was  laughing, 
but  I wasn’t.  I was  laughing  about  the 
funny  thoughts  I had  when  I was  young. 
I just  couldn’t  make  my  eyes  open  wide 
and  when  she  caught  me  laughing  I could  see 
the  first  time  I found  out  that  God  was  ahead. 
It  was  that  time  in  the  bathroom  when  I wanted 
you  to  turn  on  the  snow  and  ’Tisement  said  you 
couldn’t  do  it,  and  couldn’t  any  of  you  do  it; 
neither  our  mama  nor  our  papa  nor  Thomas 
could  turn  on  the  snow.  You  said  you  could  all 
of  you  turn  on  the  water.  Well,  I couldn’t  see 
why  you  couldn’t  just  as  well  turn  on  the  snow 
as  the  water.  Then  all  of  a sudden  the  thought 
came  into  my  head  that  God  was  ahead  of  you 
all  and  that  only  He  could  turn  on  the  flaky, 
flying,  zig-zag  snow,  and  I began  wondering 
what  more  He  could  do  that  nobody  else,  not 
even  our  mama  and  our  papa,  could  do.  Do  you 
remember  how  Thomas  laughed  at  me  the  next 
day  when  I told  him  about  it?  How  funny  I 
was  when  I was  young,  wasn’t  I?  I reckon  all 
the  little  children  are  just  as  funny,  though, 
and  all  of  them  think  there  isn’t  anything  in 
the  world  that  their  father  and  mother  can’t 
do.  I know  I thought  so  until  that  very  morn- 


344  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


ing  and  then  I knew  that  God  was  ahead  even 
of  them.  Once  I asked  our  papa  which  was  the 
oldest,  he  or  God,  and  oh,  my,  but  I was  so  hurt 
and  disappointed  when  he  said  God  was  the  old- 
est.” 

Little  streaks  of  light  were  just  beginning  to 
scramble  in  through  the  slatted  blinds.  My 
Soldier  smiling,  stooped  and  kissed  our  darling’s 
little  wasted  hands  and  said,  “Yes,  my  boy;  God 
is  ahead,”  and  then  he  walked  over  to  the  double 
windows  and  opened  wide  the  blinds  so  that  all 
the  dawn-colors  might  stream  in  untrammeled 
and  light  the  room,  that  our  little  one  could  see 
the  eastern  sky  and  watch  for  the  sun  he  loved 
so  well.  The  sky  became  a deeper  red  and  mov- 
ing across  it  was  a black  specky  cloud. 

“What  are  those  dark  specks,  Soldier;  are 
they  crows'?”  I asked  as  I walked  through  the 
window  onto  the  veranda  to  take  a better  look 
at  the  long  queer  line  and  to  breathe  in  the 
morning  air. 

“No,  little  one,”  replied  my  Soldier,  “they  are 
wild  geese ; the  cold  weather  is  all  gone.” 

“Then  summer  has  come,  our  papa,”  said  the 
child.  “I  was  watching  those  little  moving 
black  flakes,  too,  when  our  mama  asked  you 
what  they  were.” 

A wrangling  of  voices  from  below  grated 
upon  our  ears. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  345 


“Some  unfortunate  fellow  lias  been  overcome 
and  is  in  the  hands  of  the  police,”  explained  my 
Soldier. 

The  sacredness  of  our  watch,  the  loneliness 
of  the  hour  and  the  hollow  silence  of  the  de- 
serted streets  made  the  harsh  voices  seem  more 
discordant.  I looked  over  the  rail. 

“Oh,  what  a pitiable  sight!”  I exclaimed. 
“The  poor  man  looks  like  a gentleman,  too,  re- 
fined and  distinguished  looking.  Poor  fellow! 
He  seems  so  angry  and — so  sick.  Please,  my 
darling,  go  to  his  rescue.  Who  knows  but  per- 
haps somewhere  there  are  belonging  to  him  lit- 
tle ones  like  ours?” 

“Yes,  please  go,  our  papa,  please,  sir,”  echoed 
the  pleading  tones  from  the  bed,  “go  and  bring 
him  in.  He  may  have  little  ones  of  our  kind  and 
maybe  he  has  a little  one  of  our  mama’s  kind, 
too,  waiting  for  him  somewhere.” 

My  Soldier  went  out  just  as  the  round  red 
rim  of  the  sun  burst  iuto  sight  out  of  the  east. 
There  was  a greater  joy  than  a smile  on  his  face 
when  he  came  back.  He  had  brought  the 
stranger  in  and  registered  him  in  the  hotel  as 
our  guest.  Our  lives  frequently  came  in  touch 
with  this  stranger’s  in  the  years  that  followed, 
and  he  told  me  that  often  and  again  when  he 
was  attacked  by  that  same  terrible,  almost  in- 
curable, malady,  the  memory  of  the  spirit  of  the 


346  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


child  in  the  dawn  of  Good  Friday  had  saved 
him. 

A year  later,  when  my  Soldier  went  home  and 
little  Corbell  was  placed  beside  him,  the  chil- 
dren of  this  man  came  to  me  and  said,  “We  are 
sorry  Corbell  is  taken  away,  for  we  have  been 
putting  flowers  on  his  grave  every  day,  as  our 
papa  told  us.  But  we  can  just  as  well  put  them 
here  and  on  the  General’s  grave,  too.” 

The  long  Saturday  passed  and  Easter  Sun- 
day came  over  the  hills  in  the  whiteness  of  its 
lilies  and  with  melodious  chimes  rang  out  the 
blessed  tidings  that  a Saviour  had  risen  to 
bring  Heaven  to  the  world.  But  the  golden 
light  brought  no  dawn  of  hope  to  the  hearts  of 
those  who  watched  sorrowfully  over  the  little 
life  that  was  drifting  out  upon  that  sea  of  glori- 
ous music  into  the  Heaven  of  which  it  gave  glad 
promise.  Lulled  to  rest  while  the  children  sang 
their  Easter  carols,  our  boy  went  to  join  his 
brother  angels.  Through  the  open  window  the 
voices  were  sounding  “Christ  is  risen”  as  he 
turned  his  head  and  laid  his  face  against  mine 
and  reached  out  his  little  hand  to  my  Soldier 
and  Mary.  I felt  his  spirit  flutter  and  go.  With 
a shivering  sigh  for  me  his  soul  slipped  through 
the  gate  that  Christ  had  risen  to  unlock. 

During  his  long  illness  thoughtful  friends 
from  everywhere  had  been  untiring  in  kindness. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  347 


All  tlieir  gifts  lie  had  willed  to  the  poor  children. 
His  books  he  had  left  to  his  little  brother,  his 
ring  to  Mary,  his  “Confederate  Orphan”  fund 
to  his  father  and  me,  saying,  “Next  quarter  you 
will  both  be  Confederate  Orphans,  for  I shall 
be  with  the  soldiers  in  the  Lord’s  Army — maybe 
I’ll  be  His  little  drummer  boy,  so  I want  you 
both  to  have  that  money.” 

His  “Uncle  Bev,”  as  he  called  Judge  Beverly 
Tucker,  had  given  him  a little  enameled  demo- 
cratic rooster  and  on  the  Saturday  evening  be- 
fore the  Easter  dawn  he  asked  his  father  to 
give  the  rooster  to  the  “poor  handsome  man  who 
had  come  in  the  early  morning  when  the  sun 
was  biggest  and  reddest  and  Good  Friday  was 
getting  out  of  the  way  for  Easter.” 

Weeks  before  he  had  selected  his  pall-bearers 
from  among  his  little  playfellows  and  had  asked 
them  all  to  wear  white.  To  Dr.  Minnegerode 
he  said: 

“Please,  sir,  Doctor,  don’t  make  the  boys  or 
any  of  my  friends  or  relations  cry  but,  please, 
sir,  tell  them  something  pretty,  as  you  do  at 
Sunday-school  sometimes,  and  make  them  as 
happy  as  you  can  and  have  them  all  sing  bright 
songs ; and  I want  everybody  to  bring  me  red 
and  blue  and  yellow  and  pink  flowers,  as  well  as 
white  ones,  and  when  you  all  get  through  and 
start  back  home  I want  the  boys  and  girls  to 


348  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


carry  all  the  flowers  with  them  because  the 
flowers  would  be  so  lonesome  out  there  that 
they’d  fade  and  die.  Birds  don’t  care  for 
flowers  and  children  do.”  He  often  asked  me, 
“Don’t  you  think  flowers  can  feel?” 

The  Easter  blossoms  were  still  fresh  and  fra- 
grant in  St.  Paul’s  Church  when  fourteen  of 
Corbell’s  little  boy  friends  all  in  white,  singing 
their  Easter  anthem,  carried  the  little  white 
casket  that  held  the  flower  just  budding  into 
blossom  in  our  Father’s  garden,  across  the 
street  and  up  the  aisle,  followed  by  all  the  chil- 
dren of  the  Sunday-school  and  the  many  sym- 
pathizing friends. 

We  left  him  under  the  shade  of  the  young 
green  leaves,  among  the  blooming  flowers  of 
the  early  spring,  where  the  music  of  the  waters 
of  the  winding  stream  as  it  rippled  over  the 
pebbles  could  be  heard  mingling  with  the  sweet 
song  of  the  birds. 

The  morning  that  he  went  to  sleep  George  had 
come  in  with  a waiter  of  white  cape  jasmine 
from  General  and  Mrs.  Maury,  who  had  taken 
him  to  their  home  during  these  last  days  of  his 
little  brother’s  perfect  life.  In  his  loving  haste 
to  bring  them  to  his  brother  some  of  the  deli- 
cate white  blossoms  had  fallen  and  been  crushed. 
Corfeell  looked  down  at  the  hurt  leaves,  then  up 
into  George’s  eyes,  saying,  “Little  brother,  be 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  349 


gentle  with  the  flowers ; they  die  so  soon.” 
These,  almost  his  last  words,  my  Soldier  had 
engraved  on  one  side  of  the  gold  dollar,  the 
“Confederate  Orphan”  money  which  he  had 
willed  to  ns,  and  wore  it  always  on  his  watch- 
chain.  After  he  went  to  our  boy  I wore  it  and 
always  have  tried  to  obey  its  voice  and  “be 
gentle  with  the  flowers,  they  die  so  soon.” 

My  Soldier  longed  to  take  me  away  at  once 
from  the  scenes  where  so  much  suffering  had 
come  to  me  and  the  next  morning  I summoned 
all  my  strength  for  the  trial  awaiting  me.  I 
went  to  Mary’s  room  and  found  her  dressed, 
with  the  exception  of  her  gloves,  ready  to  go 
out.  Her  trunks,  marked  and  strapped,  were 
being  taken  down-stairs.  Upon  the  bed  were 
my  dress  and  wrap,  bonnet  and  veil  and  gloves 
of  mourning,  all  laid  out  by  her  careful  hand. 

“Come,”  she  said,  “let  me  help  you  off  with 
your  wrapper.  You  have  not  much  time ; I was 
just  coming  for  you.  You  are  to  leave  on  the 
ten-thirty  train.  George  has  gone  with  his 
father  while  he  makes  the  final  arrangements. 
I have  said  good-bye  to  them.” 

“Good-bye?  Mary!”  I said.  “Good-bye? 
What  do  you  mean?  You  would  never  leave  me 
now  when  I need  you  so?” 

Her  beautiful  face  was  as  white  as  marble  as 
she  said : 


350  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


“Weeks  ago,  my  lady,  when  I saw  that  onr 
little  darling  could  not  live  I made  all  my  ar- 
rangements to  take  the  veil.  God  has  again 
taken  from  me  all  I had  on  earth.  When  you, 
too,  like  me,  are  bereft  of  everything  come  to 
me.” 

“Passengers  for  the  New  York  express,  time’s 
up !”  rang  through  the  hall. 

For  one  minute  we  were  clasped  in  each 
other’s  arms ; her  cold  lips  pressed  mine  for  the 
first  time.  No  word  was  spoken — she  was  gone 
— I was  alone.  I looked  about  me,  dazed,  con- 
fused. There  was  my  hand  satchel  packed,  a 
book  and  a letter,  Mary’s  writing,  on  the  bureau. 
Mechanically  I picked  them  up,  shuddering  as 
I caught  a glimpse  of  myself  in  the  mirror. 
Was  that  pale,  pinched  face  shrouded  in  crepe 
mine? 

“Dear  Mother,  where  are  you?”  George’s 
little  arms  were  clasping  my  knees.  “Dear 
Father  sent  me  to  take  care  of  you  till  he 
comes  back.  He  says  he  will  be  up  in  a minute 
for  you  and  I must  help  you  to  get  ready.” 

Always  before  our  precious  boy  had  called 
me  “Our  Mama”  and  his  father  “Our  Papa,”  as 
he  had  been  taught  by  his  father.  I sat  down, 
taking  him  in  my  lap. 

“ ‘Our  Mama’  is  ready,  my  precious  boy,”  I 
said. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  351 


“Dear  Mother,  you’ve  got  me  and  Dear 
Father ; don’t  cry — please,  Dear  Mother.  I saw 
Mammy-Mary  again  but  she  shook  her  head  at 
us  and  pointed  up  here  to  you  and  so  Dear 
Father  wouldn’t  stop  her.  Oh,  she  looked  most 
as  dead  as  you  do,  Dear  Mother.” 

“Why  do  you  call  me  differently,  dear?”  I 
asked. 

“I  don’t  know,”  he  replied,  “but  the  words 
‘Dear  Mother’  just  came  to  me  and  choked  up 
iu  my  throat  and  so  I said  them  out.” 

From  that  time  to  him  I was  always  “Dear 
Mother.” 

From  the  walls  of  a convent  in  France  for 
many  years  came  at  Easter  time  a message  of 
love,  a book,  an  embroidered  flower,  a letter  or 
a prayer.  Then,  when  all  had  been  taken  from 
me  and  I needed  her  most,  only  silence  came, 
and  I knew  that  she,  too,  had  passed  beyond. 


XXXVI 


HIS  LAST  BATTLE 

IN  the  early  summer  of  1875,  as  we  were  on 
the  eve  of  going*  to  Green  Brier  White 
Sulphur  Springs  for  the  rest  that  my  Sol- 
dier so  much  needed  after  a winter  of  hard 
work,  a telegram  came  from  the  Insurance  Com- 
pany he  represented  notifying  him  that  an  im- 
portant matter  in  their  Norfolk  Agency  had 
arisen,  requiring  his  immediate  personal  atten- 
tion. 

“Little  one,”  he  said  to  me,  “you  must  go  on 
to  the  Springs  with  our  boy  and  I will  join  you 
just  as  soon  as  this  business  is  settled.” 

“Go  without  you?  Not  for  the  whole  world !” 
1 replied.  “No,  indeed,  my  Soldier.  I am  going 
with  you.  Why,  I would  not  leave  you  even  if 
you  were  perfectly  well.  I am  going  with  you.” 

He,  with  his  usual  unselfishness,  urged  my  go- 
ing to  the  Springs,  pleading  that  he  was  not  at 
all  seriously  ill  and  would  be  all  right  in  a day 
or  two. 


352 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  353 


“I  am  going  to  Norfolk,”  I said,  “and  that 
settles  it.” 

“But  think,  little  one,  think,”  he  replied. 
“You  are  packed  and  ready  to  start,  your  rooms 
are  engaged  and  your  tickets  bought.  Now, 
don’t  be  a foolish  little  wife.  Go  on  to  the 
White  where  it  is  cool  and  pleasant — please, 
now,  my  Lily,  please,  dear.  This  business  may 
not  detain  me  over  a day  or  two.  Be  good  and 
go,  and  please  me  by  escaping  the  heat  and 
mosquitoes.” 

“I  want  to  be  foolish,”  I replied,  “and  I don’t 
want  to  be  good,  nor  stay  in  a cool  and  pleasant 
place  when  you  are  where  it  is  uncomfortable 
and  sweltering ; I want  to  be  scorched  with  heat 
and  bitten  by  mosquitoes,  so  I am  going  with 
you  if  it  is  not  longer  than  a minute.” 

I went.  The  day  following  our  arrival  in 
Norfolk  my  Soldier  returned  to  the  hotel  suffer- 
ing with  a chill.  The  duties  had  proved  more 
complicated  than  were  anticipated  and  his  ill- 
ness had  been  aggravated  by  hard  work  in  the 
intense  heat.  Feeling  better  the  next  morning, 
he  insisted  upon  going  out  again,  but  within  the 
hour  came  back  with  another  chill. 

Thus  began  the  long  battle  with  death,  in 
which  no  impatient  word  escaped  his  lips.  With 
the  endurance  born  to  the  brave,  trained  in  long- 
marches  and  agonizing  campaigns  and  steeled 


354  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


in  tlie  fires  of  battle,  his  soul  rose  triumphant 
above  the  shocks  of  physical  torture.  When 
intense  pain  forced  a moan  from  his  lips  he 
would  look  up  pathetically  and  apologize,  say- 
ing': 

“You  must  not  mind  my  moaning,  little  one. 
I’m  afraid  husband  is  getting  into  bad  habits; 
forgive  him.” 

So  solicitous  was  he  for  me  that  often  he 
would  not  acknowledge  that  suffering  had 
caused  an  expression  of  pain,  but  would  say, 
“Oh,  it  was  nothing.”  With  serene  face  he  met 
the  agony,  fighting  a braver  battle  than  had 
ever  been  waged  upon  a field  of  war.  Oh,  those 
dark,  dark  days  when  hope  failed  and  faith 
waned!  If  there  was  one  ray  of  light  in  their 
gloom  as  I look  back  through  the  long  weary 
years,  it  was  in  the  loving  thoughtfulness  and 
sympathy  of  his  people,  the  people  of  our  be- 
loved land  everywhere. 

Especially  do  I recall,  among  the  legion  of 
those  who  came  to  serve,  my  cousin,  William 
Jasper  Phillips,  a mere  boy  in  years  but  a man 
in  mind  and  spirit,  who  with  willing  hand  and 
heart,  with  gentle  words  and  loyal,  loving  eyes, 
came  to  watch  with  me  through  the  dark  hours 
— holding  my  hands  with  a child’s  loving  fervor 
and  a man’s  strong  sympathy. 

Long  years  afterward,  when  I stood  by  the 


“all  quiet  along  the  potomac” 


■r 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  355 


open  grave  of  this  cousin  and  looked  upon 
the  many  mourners  whom  special  trains  had 
brought  from  all  parts  of  the  country  to  do  him 
honor  and  show  their  love,  my  thoughts  went 
back  to  that  dread  time  and  I wondered  not 
that  a host  of  friends  were  saddened  by  his 
passing. 

In  vain  were  all  our  prayers — in  vain  our  lov- 
ing care.  The  time  soon  came  when  I knew 
that  my  Soldier’s  warfare  was  almost  ended. 

Father  Jansen,  who  had  come  from  Richmond 
to  see  him,  asked,  “Do  you  want  to  see  me 
alone?”  With  his  hand  on  the  Father’s  knee, 
he  replied : 

“You  know,  Father,  I never  was  a solitary 
bird.  I was  never  alone  except  sometimes  in 
the  twilight  or  in  the  woods  and  then  I had  the 
spirit  of  my  mother  and  my  little  girl  with  me.” 

“I  know  you  are  reconciled  to  death,”  said 
the  priest. 

“Ah,  no;  how  could  I be?  I think  God  does 
not  want  me  to  be  reconciled  to  leaving  my  wife 
and  little  boy  alone  in  the  world.  He  only  wants 
me  to  obey  with  the  courage  of  a soldier  who 
receives  an  order  that  must  be  carried  out  be- 
cause he  is  a soldier.” 

The  Father  was  silent  for  a time  as  if  going 
jack  in  memory  to  an  hour  long  past.  Then  he 
said: 


356  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


“The  first  time  I remember  seeing  you  and 
having-  a talk  with  you  was  on  Shockoe  Hill. 
Standing  there  alone,  your  little  boy  gathering 
flowers  some  distance  away,  you  seemed  com- 
pletely lost  in  the  view  before  you.  You  held 
a bunch  of  wild  flowers  in  your  hand  and  were 
singing,  ‘As  I view  now  those  scenes  so  charm- 
ing.’ I listened  and  when  you  had  finished 
the  song  you  began  to  whistle.  I asked  you 
what  tune  you  whistled  and  you  said,  ‘I  was 
thinking  of  Forsyth  and  of  the  boys  and  of  the 
old  fellow  who  came  into  the  camp  at  San  An- 
tonio and  acted  out  “Bennie  Havens,  0,”  and  we 
all  gave  him  money  to  go  on  his  way  and  I 
sang  that  song  that  night,  and  it  came  back  to 
me,  and  I wondered  what  had  become  of  the  boys. 
The  next  morning  at  breakfast  a young  fellow 
named  May  came  in  and  said,  “Boys,  here  is  your 
money  and  it  is  worth  it.  I was  Bennie  Havens, 
0.”  I was  wondering  where  May  was.’  ” 

On  the  last  day  when  the  physicians  wanted 
to  give  my  Soldier  an  anodyne,  he  said: 

“No,  I would  rather  suffer  and  know.  You 
say  there  is  no  help  for  me;  that  Pve  got  to 
cross  the  river.  Well,  I want  to  go  over  in  my 
right  mind — to  know  when  I’m  going;  and  I 
want  to  see  how  to  steer  my  little  craft  as  it 
pulls  out  from  the  shore  and  look  into  the  dear 
faces  of  my  loved  ones  till  I breathe  my  last 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  357 


good  night.  Now,  please,  Doctor,  excuse  me, 
but  won’t  you  all  go  and  leave  me  alone  with 
my  wife?  You  have  tried  to  save  me  for  her 
and  I thank  you.  Now,  all  that  you  can  do  for 
me  is  to  say  good  night.” 

Just  as  they  were  going  my  uncle,  Colonel 
Phillips,  and  his  wife  came  in  with  our  little 
boy,  who  was  staying  with  them. 

“Well,  Colonel,”  said  my  Soldier,  “the  enemy 
is  too  strong  for  me  again,  you  see,  and,  Colonel 
— my  ammunition  is  all  out.  I am  glad  you 
have  both  come.  Thank  you,  and  now  good 
night,  my  dear  friend ; you  are  the  last  old  com- 
rade to  whom  I shall  give  an  order — watch  over 
my  wife  and  child.” 

Calling  our  boy  he  said : 

“Crawl  up  here  by  ‘Dear  Father,’  my  baby,” 
and  laying  his  hand  on  our  boy’s  head  he  closed 
his  eyes  and  there  was  silence  in  the  room. 
Presently  he  spoke : 

“This  is  the  month  that  God  sent  you  to  us, 
my  boy,  and  this  is  the  month,  I am  afraid,  that 
God  is  going  to  call  me  away  from  you.  You 
must  take  my  place  at  the  side  of  your  Dear 
Mother,  begin  at  once  to  be  the  little  husband 
to  her,  the  little  man  for  her,  and  I will  watch 
over  you  and  help  you  to  perform  all  these 
offices.” 

“What  are  officers?”  asked  the  child. 


358  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


“Offices.  You  are  old  enough  to  know  offices 
and  officers.  You  must  begin  to  learn  words, 
because  words  are  things  and  their  meanings 
have  much  to  do  with  our  lives.” 

He  spoke  of  Indian  words  and  how  the  In- 
dians had  chosen  their  words. 

“Klosch  nonnitsh,  look  out,  means  you  must 
not  tell  anybody ; it  is  a secret.  Tum-tum, 
heart.  Klosch  mika  tum-tum,  my  heart  speaks 
to  yours.” 

He  turned  to  me  and  said  in  Chinook : 

“I  am  trying  to  make  him  understand  the 
value  of  words  and  feel  their  meaning  as  in- 
dicated in  their  sound.” 

He  gave  George  some  money  and  told  him  to 
treat  his  little  friends,  saying  that  he  had  found 
that  it  brought  him  much  more  pleasure  to  give 
than  to  receive,  and  that  one  of  the  expressions 
of  the  eyes  that  he  liked  more  than  anything 
else  was  gratitude  and  love. 

“I  have  seen  gratitude  and  love  in  a dog’s 
eyes  almost  as  strong  as  in  a human  being’s.” 

Little  George  asked: 

“How  about  a cat’s?” 

“Cats  have  secret  eyes.  They  are  eyes  of 
mystery;  eyes  that  defy  you  to  read  them. 
They  are  wonderfully  beautiful,  and  there  is  a 
jewel  that  looks  like  them  and  is  called  cat’s- 
eye. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  359 


“They  told  Dear  Father  that  he  must  not 
write  and  he  is  a good  soldier,  hut  he  is  going 
to  risk  a court-martial  and  write.  Now,  run 
along  and  spend  your  money  and  have  a good 
time  and  remember  when  even  you  are  having  a 
good  time  that  it  is  at  nobody’s  expense.” 

“’What  is  expense?”  asked  George. 

“You  can  have  it  at  your  own  expense.” 

“What  are  you  going  to  do  to  be  court-mar- 
tialed about?”  asked  the  boy,  returning  to  the 
risk  that  his  father  was  to  take. 

“Well,  I am  going  to  have  pencil  and  paper 
if  I can  get  them.  I would  rather  have  pen 
and  ink  if  I could.” 

“I  will  get  paper  and  ink  and  pen  for  you,” 
replied  George. 

He  went  out  and  returned  with  paper,  a bottle 
of  ink,  a pen  and  a sponge.  He  said  he  tried 
to  get  some  shot  because  he  had  seen  it  down- 
stairs to  wipe  pens  on,  but  he  did  not  see  how 
it  could  wipe  pens,  for  he  took  one  and  tried 
to  wipe  a pen  and  couldn’t  do  it. 

“Now,  this  is  a love-letter  and  I don’t  want 
you  to  read  it  because  you  would  be  jealous.  It 
is  to  an  old  sweetheart,”  said  my  Soldier,  and 
the  old  twinkle  came  into  his  eyes. 

On  that  last  day  he  wrote  a letter  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Haxtun,  dear  friends  at  whose  home  I 
had  visited  in  happy  days.  Mr.  Haxtun  was 


360  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


both  Vice-President  and  Secretary  of  the  Life 
Insurance  Company  which  my  Soldier  repre- 
sented. 

“Sister,”  he  said  to  the  nurse,  “I  want  this 
letter  mailed  at  once.” 

“All  right,”  she  answered.  “Would  I not  bet- 
ter ask  the  Doctor?” 

“I  want  this  letter  mailed  right  at  once,”  he 
repeated. 

In  the  letter  he  had  written: 

“The  marching  days  are  over  and  when  the 
train  comes  in  and  the  call  is  ‘All  aboard’  and 
I shall  have  started  on  the  last  journey,  I want 
you  to  come  and  take  my  precious  wife  to  your 
home  and  keep  her  just  as  long  as  you  can  have 
her  and  as  she  can  stay.  She  loves  music,  she 
loves  the  beautiful  sky,  she  loves  the  flowers, 
the  ocean,  and  she  loves  you  both.  Lying  here 
thinking  about  it,  I feel  that  if  she  went  to  her 
own  people  they  would  remind  her  all  the  time 
of  her  grief,  because  it  will  be  a grief  to  her, 
and  it  would  be  the  same  way  if  she  went  to 
mine.  With  you  there  is  nothing  that  will  make 
the  sorrow  keener.” 

When  the  letter  was  finished  he  said  to  little 
George : 

“My  darling  boy,  your  Dear  Mother  gave  von 
my  name,  George  Edwards  Pickett.  I know 
you  will  take  care  of  it,  and  now  I give  you  my 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  361 


place,  too,  and  my  darling  wife,  your  Dear 
Mother.  You  understand,  my  son!” 

The  little  head  of  his  namesake  son  nestled 
closer  to  his  own,  the  little  anus  crept  about  his 
neck  and  the  child  sobbed  out,  “Yes,  sir,  Dear 
Father.” 

“Bless  your  heart,  my  baby,  bless  your  heart. 
Come  now  and  kiss  ‘Dear  Father,’  good  night.” 

After  our  boy  had  gone  my  Soldier  said: 

“Poor  little  man!  Poor  little  loving  heart! 
He  does  not  know  what  death  is,  even  though 
he  saw  his  little  brother  go  out  of  this  earth- 
life  ; and  you,  my  darling  wife,  must  not  let  him 
know  its  meaning  now.  You  must — you  have 
got  to  take  my  place  and  be  ‘Dear  Mother’  and 
‘Dear  Father,”  too,  to  onr  boy.” 

The  moon  was  rising,  filling  the  night  with 
radiance  and  casting  mystic  shadows  on  the 
earth. 

“Turn  down  the  lights,  please,  little  one,” 
he  said,  “and  come  to  my  arms.” 

Again  there  was  silence.  The  Doctor  came 
and  gave  him  something  and  I have  always 
thought  there  was  an  anodyne  in  it. 

“How  beautiful  the  moonlight  looks  and  how 
peaceful ! You  will  remember  sometimes,  my 
darling  wife,  how  often  in  the  years  that  are 
no  more,  I have  sung  to  you  under  its  silvery 
sheen,  but  my  guitar  is  unstrung  and  the  strings 


362  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


in  my  voice  are  all  broken  and  I can’t  sing  to 
you  to-night,  and  I want  to — oh,  how  I want  to 
sing  just  one  song  for,  as  I hold  you  close  and 
feel  your  touch,  I seem  to  hear  again  the  chimes 
ringing  out  on  our  wedding  day- — our  blessed 
marriage  song,  ‘Believe  me,  if  all  these  endear- 
ing young  charms,’  and  I hear  the  choir  chant- 
ing it  soft  and  low  in  the  distance  as  the  min- 
ister is  saying,  ‘Those  whom  God  hath  joined 
together  let  no  man  put  asunder,’  and  the  bands 
playing  the  same  song  as  they  passed  our  car- 
riage on  the  way  to  the  station.  I feel  the  hand 
of  my  wife  creep  into  mine,  and  as  the  last  faint 
sound  of  the  last  band  dies  away  I feel  our  hand- 
clasp tighten  and  hear  my  own  voice  singing  for 
my  darling,  ‘Believe  me,  if  all  these  endearing 
young  charms,’  and  feel  the  thrill  of  our  great 
love.” 

My  Soldier  felt  my  tears.  I could  not  speak. 
I could  only  remember. 

“Oh,  my  Lily — my  little  one — my  precious 
wife!  Pass  over  the  dark  days  as  bravely  as 
you  can  till  our  boy  is  safe  and  then  come  to 
husband.” 

His  thought  went  out  to  the  home  in  which  we 
had  spent  so  many  happy  years. 

“If  I had  been  at  home  in  our  little  room 
within  the  sight  and  the  sound  of  the  waters 
below  us  and  the  old  packet-boat  coming  by,  the 


. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  PEACE 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  363 


birds  singing  and  my  own  redbird  that  always 
came  and  the  mocking-birds,  I think  husband 
would  have  been  a long  time  with  you  and  the 
little  boy.  Maybe  it  is  best.  I think  they  must 
have  given  me  an  anaesthetic,  though  I asked 
them  not  to,  for  I feel  as  if  floating  dizzily.  Now, 
little  one,  let’s  go  to  sleep.” 

My  Soldier  went  to  sleep  with  my  hand  in 
his.  One  and  then  another  of  the  watchers 
would  look  in  and  as  I waved  my  hand  would 
quietly  steal  away.  He  just  breathed  hard  and 
then  seemed  to  be  gently  sleeping. 

Six  hours  later  one  of  the  Sisters  of  Charity 
came  in  and  unclasped  the  precious  hand  which 
I knew  was  holding  mine  for  the  last  time. 
Two  hours  earlier  I had  felt  the  sigh  that  freed 
his  great  spirit  and  made  of  me  (Oh,  the  woe 
of  that  word!)  a widow. 

Darkness  came.  Through  it  some  of  the 
scenes  that  passed  made  pictures  on  my  mind 
which  come  back  to  me  now  in  the  dim  watches 
of  memory.  I recall  the  memorials  and  reso- 
lutions of  sorrow  that  came  from  military  asso- 
ciations, from  Boards  of  Trade,  from  the  many 
organizations  that  had  known  my  Soldier 
through  the  years.  From  all  over  the  country 
they  came  to  tell  of  the  deep  appreciation  and 
honor  in  which  he  was  held. 


364  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


I remember  the  long  procession  of  mourners 
that  followed  him  through  the  streets  of  Rich- 
mond to  the  beautiful  resting  place  of  Holly- 
wood, the  longest  funeral  procession,  they  told 
me,  that  had  ever  been  known  in  Richmond. 
His  staff  officers,  couriers  and  headquarters 
guard  met  again  to  follow  him  as  loyally  as 
when  he  led  them  into  the  whirlwind  of  battle. 

His  old  soldiers  who  had  leaped  at  the  flash- 
ing of  his  sword  and  dashed  with  him  against 
the  gates  of  death,  and  who  were  now  scattered 
through  far  distant  States,  had  rallied  to  the 
call  of  the  unblown  bugle  and  the  unvoiced  com- 
mand of  their  beloved  leader  to  march  behind 
him  for  the  last  time.  Those  who  had  followed 
other  leaders  came  to  do  honor  to  the  memory 
of  the  great  soldier  who  had  fought  for  the 
cause  dear  to  them  all. 

A few  years  later  another  procession  marched 
down  the  streets  of  Richmond  to  the  sacred 
ground  of  Hollywood  to  attend  the  dedication 
of  Gettysburg  Monument,  erected  to  the  mem- 
ory of  my  Soldier  and  his  brave  men — the  first 
Confederate  Monument.  Again  Southern  veter- 
ans assembled  in  honor  of  their  leader  and  of 
their  gallant  comrades.  Loyal  to  them  and  the 
past,  they  came  from  many  States,  faithful  as  in 
the  days  of  fire  and  storm,  bringing  their  treas- 
ure of  memories  to  lay  on  that  sacred  shrine. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME  365 


William  Florence  and  Joe  Jefferson  placed 
their  laurel  wreaths  on  the  grave  of  their  friend. 

From  Pennsylvania  came  es-Governor  Curtin, 
the  war  Governor,  and  two  Union  Generals. 
The  Philadelphia  Brigade,  that  stood  on  Ceme- 
tery Hill  and  received  the  shock  of  that  great 
charge  which  will  live  in  history  while  our  coun- 
try stands,  marched  in  a body  to  pay  tribute 
to  the  great  Southern  soldier  whose  heart  was 
filled  with  kindness,  leaving  no  room  for  enmity. 
Officers  of  the  old  Army  of  the  Forties  and 
Fifties,  who  had  loved  my  Soldier  in  those  far- 
gone  days,  three  of  them  members  of  that 
memorable  class  of  1846,  were  there,  with  the 
golden  flames  of  old  camp-fires  yet  burning  upon 
the  altar  of  the  heart. 

General  Longstreet  thus  recalls  his  old  com- 
rade : 

In  memory  I can  see  him,  of  medium  height,  of 
graceful  build,  dark,  glossy  hair,  worn  almost  to  his 
shoulders  in  curly  waves,  of  wondrous  pulchritude 
and  magnetic  presence,  as  he  gallantly  rode  from  me 
on  that  memorable  third  day  of  July,  1863,  saying 
in  obedience  to  the  imperative  order  to  which  I could 
only  bow  assent,  “I  will  lead  my  Division  forward. 
General  Longstreet.” 

He  was  the  first  to  scale  the  parapets  of  Chapulte- 
pec  on  the  13th  of  September,  1847,  and  was  the 
brave  American  who  unfurled  our  flag  over  the  castle, 


366  WHAT  HAPPENED  TO  ME 


as  the  enemy’s  troops  retreated,  firing  at  the  splendid 
Pickett  as  he  floated  our  victorious  colors. 

With  George  E.  Pickett,  whether  fighting  under  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  at  Chapultepec  or  under  the  Stars 
and  Bars  at  Gettysburg,  duty  was  his  polar  star,  and 
with  him  duty  was  above  consequences  and,  at  a crisis, 
he  would  throw  them  overboard. 

In  a memorial  paper  General  George  B.  Mc- 
Clellan wrote  of  my  Soldier : 

He  will  live  in  history  as  nearer  to  Light  Horae 
Harry,  of  the  Revolution,  than  any  other  of  the  many 
heroes  produced  by  old  Virginia, — his  whole  history 
when  told,  as  it  will  be  by  some  one  of  the  survivora 
of  Pickett’s  men,  will  reveal  a modern  type  of  the 
Chevalier  Bayard,  “Sans  peur  et  sans  reproche.” 

Could  he  have  had  his  wish,  he  had  died  amid  the 
roar  of  battle.  No  man  of  our  age  has  better  illus- 
trated the  aptitude  for  war  of  his  class  of  our  coun- 
try, and  with  these  talents  for  war  was  united  the 
truest  and  sweetest  nature. 

Virginia  will  rank  him  in  her  roll  of  fame  with  Lee, 
with  Johnston,  with  the  Jackson  she  loves  as  “Stone- 
wall”; and  mourners  for  the  noble  and  gallant  gen- 
tleman, the  able  and  accomplished  soldier,  are  legion. 

True  and  noble  soul,  rest  in  peace. 


Date  Due 


JUN  2 7 

M 

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Form  335— 40M— 6-40 


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Duke  University  Libraries 


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DATE 

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2 7 

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